THE   POEMS 


GEORGE   D.  PRENTICE 


EDITED 


WITH  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


BY  JOHN  JAMES   PIATT 


CINCINNATI 
ROBERT    CLARKE    &    CO 
1876 


COPYRIGHT,    1875,  BY 
ROBERT    CLARKE    &    CO 


OGDEN,  CAMPBELL  &  Co., 
Electrotypers. 


A. 


DEDICATION. 


TO     P^UJ.     R. 

BEVERLY,  N.  J. 


MY  DEAR  SHIPMAN  : 

I  take  great  pleasure  in  inscribing  this  volume 
to  you,  and  thus  connecting  your  name  newly  with  that  of 
your  old  associate  and  friend.  But  for  you  I  should,  perhaps, 

never  have  known  him  myself ;  and  but  for  you 1  think  you 

will  understand  what  I  can  not  here  say. 

Sincerely  yours, 

;•  j-  P- 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH,  .........        c        vii 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR,  ;        .        „        .        e        0        o    49 

AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE,       ....-..,„„         53 

THE  RIVER  IN  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE,  „    55 

To  AN  ABSENT  WIFE, c  58 

HARVEST  HYMN, ,    60 

AN  INFANT'S  GRAVE,        .........  62 

THE  ISLE  AND  THE  STAR,     ..........    64 

THE  BOUQUET'S  COMPLIMENTS,       ........         66 

THE  DEAD  MARINER, .    68 

THE  STARS, „  70 

OUR  CHILDHOOD, .    72 

To  A  YOUNG    BEAUTY,    ..........         75 

THE  CHARM  OF  THE  POET, 77 

A  DIRGE, 79 

SENT  WITH  A  ROSE, „    81 

SABBATH  EVENING, 82 

To  A  LADY,    .............    85 

ON  REVISITING  BROWN  UNIVERSITY,  .......         87 

CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR  1832, „    89 

ANNIVERSARY  OF  A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING, 92 

MEMORIES, °    94 

MAMMOTH  CAVE, 96 

To  SUE, .  100 

ON  A  WARM  DAY  NEAR  THE  CLOSE  OF  WINTER,        ....        102 

A  WISH, 104 

To  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART, 105 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 107 

MY  HEART  is  WITH  THEE, 109 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MY  MOTHER, 112 

MARY, ny 

To  A  BUNCH  OF  HOSES,        ........  119 

A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE, 120 

LINES  TO  A  LADY, 123 

BIRTHDAY  REFLECTIONS, 124 

THE  INVALID'S  REPLY, 127 

COME  TO  ME  IN  DREAMS, 132 

To  ROSA, 134 

A  MEMORY, 137 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  YEARS, 139 

To  A  BEAUTIFUL  AUTHORESS, ,        .        145 

HENRY  CLAY, 148 

MY  OLD  HOME, 151 

NIGHT  IN  CAVE  HILL  CEMETERY, 157 

To  Miss  SALLIE  M.  BRYAN, 163 

FANNIE, 166 

A  FAREWELL, 169 

YOUNG  ADELAIDE, 171 

A  NIGHT  SCENE, 172 

RAPHAEL  TO  JULIA. 174 

THE  PARTING, 176 

LUCY  MERRILL, 178 

To  MARIAN  PRENTICE  Pi  ATT, iSo 

THE  DEATHDAY  OF  WILLIAM  COURTLAND  PRENTICE,     ....  182 

ELEGIAC, 186 

LINES  TO  ALICE  MCCLURE  GRIFFIN, 189 

LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN,       .  190 

To  A  POLITICAL  OPPONENT, 194 

ON  A  BOOK  OF  VERSES, 196 

VIOLETS, 198 

THOUGHTS  ON  THE  FAR  PAST, 200 

To  LITTLE  VIKGILIE  GRIFFIN, 203 

ON  THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  SIERRA  MADRE, 2oc; 

NEW  ENGLAND, 208 

ON  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  CLAY  STATUE, 210 

ADDRESS  ON  THE  OPENING  OF  A  NEW  THEATER, 213 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


EORGE    DENNISON    PRENTICE    was    born 

V T   upon  a  farm,  in    the    township  of  Preston,  New 

London  county,  Connecticut,  December  18,  1802.  lie 
was  the  second  of  two  sons,  the  only  children  of  his 
parents.  His  father,  Rufus  Prentice,  was  a  man  of  fair 
average  English  education,  and  his  mother,  Sarah  Stan- 
ton,  is  said  to  have  had  some  literary  culture  and  taste. 
George  D.  had  reached  manhood  before  his  father's 
death,  which  took  place  in  July,  1826;  but  his  mother 
died  during  his  boyhood,  in  November,  1816.  An  in 
teresting  and  affecting  record  of  her  death  may  be  found 
in  his  blank-verse  poem,  entitled  u  My  Mother,"  printed 
in  this  volume.  His  tender  and  mournful  regret  for  her 
is  also  indicated  in  the  more  familiar  lines,  "At  my 
Mother's  Grave,"  which,  I  believe,  were  writtten  be 
fore  he  entered  college.  She  taught  him  to  read  in  the 
Bible  at  a  very  early  age,  and  gave  him  religious  im 
pressions  which,  I  know,  lasted  throughout  his  life. 
Mr.  Prentice,  one  of  whose  earliest  distinct  recollections 
was  of  the  total  eclipse  of  the  sun  in  1806,  as  he  once 
told  me,  remembered  also  to  have  read  several  chap- 


viii  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

ters  of  the  Bible  on  the  day  of  that  eclipse,  when  he 
was  not  quite  three-and-a-half  years  old.  His  brother, 
fourteen  months  his  senior,  who  is  still  living,  relates 
that  the  neighbors  visiting  his  father  and  mother,  were 
in  the  habit  of  asking  to  hear  George  read,  and  that 
among  them  it  was  a  common  wonder  so  small  a  boy 
should  read  so  well.  Young  Prentice's  school  experi 
ence  began  at  a  country  school-house,  before  he  had 
completed  his  fourth  year  ;  he  showed  remarkable  pre 
cocity  in  mastering  the  common  English  branches.  His 
father's  means  were  small,  it  seems,  and  between  his  ninth 
and  fourteenth  years  he  was  kept  at  work  upon  the  farm — 
though  somewhat  delicate,  doing  a  man's  faithful  serv 
ice  ;  but,  his  parents  having  meanwhile  decided  to  give 
him  a  collegiate  education,  he  was  then  placed  under  the 
instruction  of  a  Presbyterian  minister,  previously  a  tutor 
at  Yale,  and  in  six  months  made  such  extraordinary  pro 
gress  in  classical  and  other  studies  that  he  was  fitted  to 
enter  any  New  England  college  of  the  time.  During 
this  marvelous  half  year,  he  began  and  completed  the 
study  of  English  grammar,  having  Lindley  Murray  by 
heart, within  five  days  ;  he  then,  for  the  first  time,  took 
up  a  Latin  grammar.  In  a  biographical  sketch  (written 
by  Mr.  Henry  Watterson,  I  believe,  from  an  auto-bio 
graphic  note  left  by  Mr.  Prentice)  published  in  the  Louis 
ville  Courier-Journal  the  morning  after  Mr.  Prentice's 
death,  is  the  following  statement,  referring  to  this  period  : 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  ix 

"  He  and  two  boys  from  South  Carolina,  one  of  them  of 
his  own  a<zc  and  the  other  two  years  older,  were  the  cler- 

£>  •/ 

gy  man's  only  pupils.  His  companions  had  each  studied 
Latin  two  years,  chiefly  in  their  native  State.  They 
were  in  Virgil.  In  five  weeks  he  caught  up  with  the 
elder  and  more  advanced,  and  the  teacher,  to  save  him 
self  trouble,  instructed  the  two  to  learn  their  lessons  to 
gether,  and  recite  them  together.  This  was  very  annoy 
ing  to  young  Prentice,  for  he  found  his  comrade,  the 
son  of  a  wealthy  planter,  dull  and  slow.  He  remon 
strated  with  his  teacher,  who,  after  a  little  burst  of  anger, 
gave  him  leave  to  go  ahead  in  his  own  way.  He  went 
ahead.  He  recited  the  whole  of  the  Twelfth  Book  of 
the  yjEncid,  as  a  single  half-day's  lesson,  to  the  Rev. 
Daniel  Waldo,  the  uncle  of  his  regular  teacher,  and 
extensively  known,  a  few  years  ago,  as  the  venerable 
Chaplain  of  Congress,  who  died,  we  believe,  at  the  age 
of  more  than  a  hundred.  He  completed  the  study  of 
Virgil,  Horace,  Sallust,  Cicero's  Orations,  the  Greek 
Testament,  Xcnophon,  six  books  of  Homer's  Iliad,  the 
Gracca  Minora,  most  of  the  Graeca  Major  a,  and  other 
works,  within  six  months  after  his  first  introduction  to 
English  grammar."  But  lacking  the  means  neccssary 
for  beginning  a  college  life,  he  now  turned  his  attention 
to  teaching,  and,  not  yet  fifteen,  took  charge  of  a  village 
school,  which  he  continued  to  teach  for  about  two  years. 
In  the  Autumn  of  1820,  he  entered  the  Sophomore  class 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

at  Brown  University,  where  he  so  distinguished  himself 
as  a  student,  that  Dr.  Asa  Messcr,  President  of  the  Col 
lege,  pronounced  him  the  best  scholar  who  had  ever 
been  in  the  institution.  Here  he  exhibited  the  same  re 
markable  power  of  memory  manifested  during  his  pre 
paratory  course  of  study  ;  it  is  stated,  on  Mr.  Prentice's 
own  authority,  that  he  could  recite  verbatim  the  whole 
of  Kames's  "  Elements  of  Criticism,"  Blair's  "Rhetoric," 
and  Dugald  Stewart's  "Mental  Philosophy."  He  be 
came  hardly  less  proficient  in  mathematics  than  in  the 
ancient  classics  and  modern  literature.  Among  his  tutors 
at  Brown  were  Horace  Mann  and  Tristam  Burges,  both 
afterwards  distinguished  in  different  spheres  of  public 
life  and  action.  One  of  his  college-mates  was  Dr. 
Samuel  G.  Howe,  the  well-known  American  philan 
thropist — and  their  early  friendship  continued  throughout 
Mr.  Prentice's  life. 

Having  graduated,  in  1823,  Mr.  Prentice  taught  in 
a  seminary  at  Smithficld,  for  a  time,  in  order  to  earn 
money  sufficient  for  pursuing  the  study  of  law,  which 
he  began  at  Canterbury,  and  continued  at  Jewctt,  two 
Connecticut  villages  not  tar  from  his  birth-place  ;  but 
after  his  admission  to  the  bar,  and  perhaps  a  brief 
experience  in  the  practice  of  law  (not  finding  it  to 
his  taste,  I  dare  say),  he  was  drawn,  partly  by  acci 
dent,  into  active  journalism.  He  had  previously  written 
somewhat  for  the  press,  I  believe.  In  1827,  on  vis- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xi 

iting  his  friend,  John  G.  C.  Brainard,  the  gentle  poet 
of  the  Connecticut,  at  New  London,  he  was  persuaded 
to  take  charge  of  a  local  journal  during  its  editor's  two 
weeks'  absence,  and  made  such  an  impression  in  that 
time,  that  several  offers  were  made  to  secure  him  as 
editor  for  various  established  or  projected  papers.  He 
finally  accepted  the  offer  of  two  gentlemen  who  pro 
posed  to  start  a  weekly  paper  at  Hartford  ;  he  agreed  to 
become  its  editor,  and  it  was  called  The  New  England 
Review.  Its  first  number  was  issued  in  the  Autumn  of 
1828.  It  made  at  once  a  marked  impression  in  New 
England,  on  account  of  both  its  political  and  literary 
character.  It  was  the  Louisville  Journal,  born  in  Con 
necticut.  When  its  publication  was  begun,  the  opposing 
political  parties  in  Connecticut  had,  in  convention,  nom 
inated  their  Congressional  tickets,  the  State  being  entitled 
to  six  Representatives.  Not  pleased  with  the  candidates 
of  his  party,  Mr.  Prentice,  upon  his  own  responsibility, 
nominated  the  six  men  whom  he  thought  best  qualified, 
zealously  urged  their  claims,  and,  in  spite  of  vehement 
opposition,  secured  the  election  of  all.  This  was  very 
naturally  regarded  as  a  brilliant  success. 

In  1830,  Mr.  Prentice  was  induced  by  the  Whigs  of 
Connecticut  to  make  a  journey  to  Kentucky,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  visiting  Ashland  and  preparing  a  life  of  Henry 
Clay.  Meanwhile  John  G.  Whittier,  the  poet,  had  been 
attracted,  by  the  brightness,  popular  reputation  and  liter- 


xii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

arv  quality  of  The  New  England  Review,  to  send  some 
of  his  early  poems  as  contributions  to  its  columns  ;  these 
had  been  published  by  Mr.  Prentice,  and  so  well  liked 
by  him  that  on  leaving  Hartford  for  Kentucky  he  recom 
mended  Mr.  Whittier— then  living  at  his  father's  house 
in  Huverhill,  Mass. — as  a  proper  successor  ;  and  the  latter 
was  surprised  one  morning  to  receive  a  letter  from  the 
proprietors  of  The  New  England  Review,  asking  his 
acceptance  of  the  position.  Mr.  Whittier  accepted  it  at 
once  ;  but  he  had  never  met  Mr.  Prentice — they  were 
strangers  personally — and  they  did  not  afterwards  meet 
each  other,  though  Mr.  Prentice,  I  know,  always  admired 
and  honored  the  good  Quaker  poet  of  Amesbury,  and 
the  latter,  I  am  sure,  must  always  have  remembered 
the  generous  compliment  of  Mr.  Prentice. 

The  absence  of  Mr.  Prentice  from  New  England, 
when  he  came  to  Kentucky  in  1830,  was  intended  to  be 
temporary  ;  it  was,  so  to  speak,  life-long.  The  biography 
of  Henry  Clay  was  designed  simply  for  campaign  uses 
in  New  England  :  it  was  written  hastily  from  the  stand 
point  of  ardent  partisanship,  and  it  fulfilled  its  purpose  ; 
directly  or  indirectly,  however,  it  served  to  make  Mr. 
Prentice  a  citizen  of  Kentucky,  for  he  had  scarcely  fin 
ished  his  task  when  he  was  persuaded,  in  connection  with 
a  gentleman  from  Ohio,  to  undertake  the  establishment 
of  a  new  daily  paper  at  Louisville,  in  opposition  to  the 
Jackson  Democracy,  who  were  purposing  and  planning 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xiii 

to  carry  against  Mr.  Clay  his  own  adopted  State.  Mr. 
Prentice's  preface  to  the  life  of  Henry  Clay  was  dated 
November  14,  1830,  and  on  the  24th  of  the  same  month 
the  first  number  of  the  Louisville  Journal  appeared. 

The  newspaper  of  course  at  once  became  a  warm 
political  supporter  of  Mr.  Clay,  between  whom  and  Mr. 
Prentice  had  begun  an  intimate  personal  friendship,  which 
ended  only  with  the  former's  death.  The  Louisville 
Journal  soon  began  to  attract  attention,  particularly  by  its 
peculiar  short,  sharp,  epigrammatic  paragraphs,  which, 
as  a.  general  thing,  flew  to  their  mark  like  arrows — they 
were  the  winged  words  so  often  mentioned  by  Homer. 

It  seemed  a  hazardous  thing  for  a  stranger,  and  es 
pecially,  perhaps,  a  u  Yankee  schoolmaster,"  as  Mr. 
Prentice  was  called — on  whom,  I  fancy,  the  Kentuckian 
in  those  old  days  was  inclined  to  look,  as  Halleck  pic 
tures  the  Virginian  doing, 

"\vithasfavorableeyes 

As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  Paradise" — 

to  attempt  such  a  style  of  editorial  writing  as  Mr.  Pren 
tice  adopted  ;  but  he  had  the  fearless  courage — always 
mingled  with  generosity  and  good  humor — necessary  ; 
and,  not  shrinking  from  the  ordeal,  he  went  through  it — 
making  enemies  often,  but  generally  in  the  end  making 
these  enemies,  if  they  were  worthy  ones,  his  friends. 
He  and  Shadrach  Penn,  an  able  writer,  who,  in  1830, 


xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH, 

was  the  recognized  editorial  champion  of  the  Democratic 
party  in  Kentucky,  conducting  the  Louisville  Advertiser, 
fought  bitterly  in  print  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  when 
the  latter,  who  had  been  the  aggressor,  was  compel 
led  to  leave  the  field  of  Kentucky  journalism  and  emi 
grate  to  Missouri.  But  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  an 
interview  was  arranged  between  the  two  long  hostile 
editors,  by  Dr.  T.  S.  Bell,  an  eminent  physician  of  Louis 
ville,  the  friend  of  both,  when  Mr.  Prentice  cordially 
offered  every  influence  in  his  power  to  render  Mr.  Penn's 
removal  unnecessary  ;  it  being  inevitable,  he  gave  Mr. 
Perm  his  warm  God-speed  privately  and  in  print.  Mr. 
Perm  established  a  new  paper  at  St.  Louis,  but  lived  only 
four  years  afterwards,  during  which  time  he  and  Mr. 
Prentice  remained  personal  friends.  On  Mr.  Penn's 
death,  his  old  editorial  enemy  wrote  a  very  tender  and  gen 
erous  eulogy  of  him.  He  did  the  same  thing,  much  more 
recently,  after  the  death  of  John  H.  Harney,  for  many 
years  editor  of  the  Louisville  Democrat,  between  whom 
and  Mr.  Prentice  a  similar  war  of  words  was  waged. 
But  paper  bullets  were  not  the  only  editorial  missiles 
used  in  Kentucky.  Mr.  Prentice  was  never  disposed  to 
seek  a  personal  collision  with  anybody,  but  others  were 
sometimes  quick  to  attack  him — not  always,  perhaps, 
without  verbal  aggravation,  direct  or  indirect.  Nearly 
all  his  personal  encounters,  I  believe,  ended  with  grace 
for  himself.  One  particular  affair  of  this  kind  is  recorded, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xv 

when  a  Kentucky  editor  named  Trotter  fired  at  Mr. 
Prentice  on  the  street  in  Louisville,  without  warning,  and 
wounded  him  near  the  heart.  Mr.  Prentice  in  a  moment 
seized  his  assailant,  threw  him  to  the  ground,  and,  with 
a  knife  given  him  by  a  spectator,  in  one  hand,  held  him 
down  with  the  other.  "Kill  him!  kill  him!"  numbers 
of  the  crowd,  which  at  once  assembled,  shouted.  But 
Mr.  Prentice  instantly  loosened  his  hold,  saying,  "  I 
can  not  kill  a  disarmed  and  helpless  man."  Mr.  Pren 
tice  was  never,  I  believe,  a  party  in  any  duel,  and  as 
early  as  1854  ne  Put  on  recol"d  his  opinion  of  duelling  so 
clearly  and  emphatically  that  I  think  it  worth  repeating. 
He  had  gone  to  Arkansas,  to  lend  his  influence  toward 
some  large  railroad  enterprise  in  that  State,  writing  while 
there,  for  a  Little  Rock  paper,  articles  in  behalf  of  the 
scheme.  One  of  these  articles  referred,  somewhat 
pointedly,  to  arguments  in  opposition  to  the  railroad 
enterprise  published  by  a  man  named  Hewson,  who 
took  offense  at  Mr.  Prentice's  expressions,  and  demanded 
their  public  withdrawal.  Mr.  Prentice  answered  that  he 
was  only  criticising  Hewson's  writings,  and  disclaimed 
any  intended  imputation  on  his  character  or  conduct. 
Hewson  insisted  on  the  unconditional  withdrawal  of  the 
offensive  expressions,  intimating  that  otherwise  Mr. 
Prentice  would  be  expected  to  meet  him  in  the  field. 
Mr.  Prentice  repeated  his  disclaimer,  adding : 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

"  I  do  not  recognize  any  right  or  reason,  on  your  part,  to  ask 
or  expect  more  of  me.  This  I  deem  quite  as  much  due  to  my 
self  as  to  you- 

"  Presuming  that  your  notes  are  written  to  me  with  a  view  to 
a  duel,  I  may  as  well  say  here  that  I  have  not  the  least  thought 
of  accepting  a  challenge  from  you.  I  consider  my  strictures 
upon  your  writings  entirely  legitimate,  and,  at  any  rate,  the 
disclaimer  that  I  have  made  ought  to  satisfy  you. 

"I  came  here,  from  a  distant  State,  because  many  believed  I 
could  do  something  to  promote  a  great  and  important  enterprise, 
and  as  I  have  reason  to  think  that  my  labors  are  not  altogether 
in  vain,  I  do  not  intend  to  let  myself  be  diverted  from  them. 
There  are  some  persons,  and  perhaps  many,  to  whom  my  life  is 
valuable,  and,  however  little  or  much  value  I  may  attach  to  it  on 
my  own  account,  I  do  not  see  fit,  at  present,  to  put  it  up  volun 
tarily  against  yours. 

"I  am  no  believer  in  the  duelling  code.  I  would  not  call  a 
man  to  the  field  unless  lie  had  done  me  such  a  deadly  wrong  that 
I  desired  to  kill  him,  and  I  would  not  obey  his  call  to  the  field 
unless  I  had  done  him  so  mortal  an  injury  as  to  entitle  him,  in 
my  opinion,  to  demand  an  opportunity  of  taking  my  life.  I 
have  not  the  least  desire  to  kill  you,  or  to  harm  a  hair  of  your 
head,  and  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  done  anything  to  entitle 
you  to  kill  me.  I  do  not  want  your  blood  upon  my  hands,  and 
I  do  not  want  my  own  upon  anybody's.  I  might  yield  much  to 
the  demands  of  a  strong  public  sentiment,  but  there  is  no  public 
sentiment,  nor  even  any  disinterested  individual  sentiment,  that 
requires  me  to  meet  you,  or  would  justify  me  in  doing  so. 

"  I  look  upon  the  miserable  code,  that  is  said  to  require  two  men 
to  go  out  and  shoot  at  each  other  for  what  one  of  them  may  con 
sider  a  violation  of  etiquette  or  punctilio  in  the  use  of  language, 
with  a  scorn  equal  to  that  which  is  getting  to  be  felt  for  it  by 
the  whole  civilized  world  of  mankind.  I  am  not  afraid  to  express 
such  views  in  the  enlightened  capital  of  Arkansas,  or  anywhere 
else.  I  am  not  so  cowardly  as  to  stand  in  dread  of  any  imputa 
tion  on  my  courage.  I  have  always  had  courage  enough  to  de 
fend  my  honor  and  myself,  and  I  presume  I  always  shall  have. 
"Your  most,  etc.,  GEO.  D.  PRENTICE." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


In  the  spring  of  1835,  Mr.  Prentice  married  Miss 
Henrietta  Benham,  daughter  of  Joseph  Benham,  then  a 
lawyer  of  some  local  distinction  in  Cincinnati  and  Louis 
ville.  Mrs.  Prentice  was  a  native  of  Ohio.  She  had 
great  beauty  of  person  in  her  youth,  I  have  understood  ; 
in  her  middle  life,  when  I  first  saw  her,  she  was  still 
fine-looking,  having  a  handsome  and  attractive  face,  a 
stately  figure,  an  elegant  and  gracious  manner.  With  a 
naturally  fine  intellect,  and  many  accomplishments  of  ed 
ucation,  she  had  a  heart  of  unusual  sensibility  —  she  could 
not  listen  without  quick  visible  emotion  to  any  talc  of 
distress  or  suffering,  and  her  charities  near  home  were 
numerous.  She  enjoyed  private  distinction  in  Louisville 
as  a  singer,  having  a  voice  of  much  power  and  beauty, 
and  showed  talent  as  a  composer  of  music.  During  her 
life  the  house  of  Mr.  Prentice  was  a  center  of  whatever 
was  refined  and  graceful  in  Louisville  society,  Mrs. 
Prentice  being  for  many  years  a  social  leader  in  that 
city.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prentice  had  in  all  four  children, 
two  of  whom,  a  son  and  daughter,  died  in  childhood  ;  two 
sons,  William  Courtland  and  Clarence  Joseph,  lived 
until  manhood. 

I  do  not  care  to  attempt  any  minute  history  of  the 
Louisville  Journal's  long  political  career.  In  Mr.  Pren 
tice's  hands  it  was  always  the  most  powerful  and  popular 
exponent  of  the  Whig  party  in  the  South  and  West  — 
indeed,  for  a  time,  it  may  be  said,  in  the  whole  country. 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

It  was  for  Mr.  Prentice  himself  an  engine  of  great 
personal  force  and  influence.  Doubtless,  its  greatest 
popularity  and  power  were  reached  between  1840,  the 
year  of  the  great  Whig  triumph  in  Gen.  Harrison's 
election  to  the  Presidency,  and  1860,  when  the  war  of 
the  Southern  Rebellion  began.  This  period  includes  the 
Native  American,  or  "Know  Nothing"  campaign,  in 
which  if  was  a  zealous  advocate  of  the  Native  Ameri 
can  doctrine. 

From  the  first,  as  I  have  said,  the  Louisville  Journal 
attracted  attention  by  its  witty  and  epigrammatic  para 
graphs,  and  the  most  widely  diffused  reputation  of  Mr. 
Prentice,  while  living,  was  for  the  cxhaustless  wit  and 
humor  manifested  day  by  day,  for  many  years,  in  these. 
Only  old  men,  or  men  now  growing  old,  who  were  inter 
ested  in  the  public  affairs  and  persons  of  those  days,  and 
recall  their  atmosphere,  know  the  wonderful  vigor,  effect, 
and  currency  of  the  paragraphs  with  which  the  Jour 
nal's  columns  bristled,  as  it  were,  from  fifteen  to  forty- 
five  years  ago.  They  were  copied  and  repeated  far  and 
wide.  They  went  everywhere.  London  and  Paris  pa 
pers  made  frequent  quotations  of  them.  A  volume  con 
taining  selections  from  these  paragraphs  was  published 
in  1859,  entitled  Prcnticcana  (the  publisher's  title),  re 
printed  since  Mr.  Prentice's  death.  The  volume  was 
taken  from  the  files  of  the  Journal  up  to  the  date  of  pub 
lication.  Mr.  Prentice  had  long  been  urged  to  make 


BIOGRAPPIICAL  SKETCH.  xix 

such  a  collection,  but  had  always  declined,  until  at  last  it 
became  evident  that  if  he  did  not  make  it  himself,  others 
would  attempt  it,  with  far  less  regard  for  the  feelings  of 
men  formerly  his  enemies,  but  then  his  friends,  than  he 
chose  to  exercise.  When  he  finally  compiled  the  volume, 
he  carefully  excluded,  out  of  deference  to  the  sensibilities 
of  persons  whom  he  had  come  to  esteem  and  love, 
hundreds  of  the  very  passages  which,  at  the  time  of  their 
appearance,  did  most  to  give  the  Louisville  Journal  its 
fame,  and  suppressed  very  many  of  the  names  of  indi 
viduals  in  the  personal  paragraphs  retained.  The  copy 
originally  prepared  embraced  perhaps  thrice  the  matter 
printed  in  the  book.  This  was  submitted  to  two  or  three 
friends  successively,  with  the  request  that  each  should 
suggest  proper  omissions,  and  the  publishers  were  finally 
empowered,  I  believe,  to  reduce  the  collection  to  the  re 
quirements  of  the  proposed  volume  ;  so,  gradually,  I  am 
afraid,  much  of  the  best  and  most  characteristic  life  passed 
out  of  the  whole  body  of  the  book.  Many  of  these 
paragraphs,  however,  removed  from  the  day's  columns, 
where  they  had  the  familiar  atmosphere  of  the  day 
about  them,  could  hardly  preserve  the  elusive  something 
which  had  been  their  temporary  ''excuse  for  being."  Mr. 
Prentice  felt  this  when  he  wrote,  in  his  modest  preface  : 
"  I  have  no  doubt  that  a  very  considerable  portion  of 
them,  which,  perhaps  from  partisan  partiality,  were 
deemed  'good  hits'  at  the  time,  will,  now  that  the  occa-  " 


xx  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

sion  which  called  them  forth  has  passed,  be  read  with 
comparatively  little  interest.  I  know  that  such  things  do 
not  keep  well."  Enough  of  them  have  kept  well,  how 
ever,  to  justify  the  reputation  for  abundant  wit  and  humor 
which  Mr.  Prentice  so  long  enjoyed — enough  of  them 
worthy  to  rank  with  the  best  good  sayings  which  are 
quoted  from  Hook,  and  Lamb,  and  Sidney  Smith,  and 
Douglas  Jerrold,  or  others  of  the  famous  wits  of  England. 
Let  me  venture  to  repeat  a  few,  (but  it  is  so  easy  to  miss 
the  best  in  such  a  collection,  even  when  one  thinks  he 
finds  them,)  as  I  happen  to  turn  to  them  in  the  volume  : 

"  The  editor  of  the '  Statesman  '  says  more  villany  is  on 

foot.  We  suppose  the  editor  has  lost  his  horse." 

"James  Ray  and  John  Parr  have  started  a  locofoco  paper 
in  Maine,  called  the  '  Democrat.'  Parr,  in  all  that  pertains  to 
decency,  is  below  zero;  and  Ray  is  below  Parr." 

"  '  Have  I  changed?'  exclaims  Gov.  P .  We  do  n't  know. 

That  depends  on  whether  you  ever  were  an  honest  man." 

"The  [Washington]  '  Globe'  says  that  such  patriotism  as  Mr. 
Clay's  will  not  answer.  True  enough,  for  it  can't  be  questioned." 

"The  editor  of  the speaks  of  his  'lying  curled  up  in 

bed  these  cold  mornings.'  This  verifies  what  we  said  of  him 
some  time  ago — '  he  lies  like  a  dog.'" 

"The  Philadelphia  'Ledger'  says  that  Clay,  Calhoun,  and 
Webster  are  behind  the  age.  Then  the  age  must  be  '  tail  fore 
most.'" 

"A  young  widow  has  established  a  pistol  gallery  in  New 
Orleans.  Her  qualifications  as  a  teacher  of  the  art  of  dueling 
are  of  course  undoubted;  she  has  killed  her  man." 

"Mr.  William  Hood  was  robbed  near  Corinth,  Alabama,  on 
the  i3th  inst.  The  Corinth  paper  says  that  the  name  of  the 
highwayman  is  unknown,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was 
Robbin'  Hood." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxi 

"  A  new  Democratic  paper  in  North  Carolina  is  called  *  The 
Rising  Day.'  It  ought  rather  to  be  called  the  Night,  for  it  is  the 
shadow  of  the  '  Globe.'" 

"  Mr.  John  Love,  of  Alabama,  was  recently  lost  during  a 
passage  from  Texas  to  Mexico.  We  had  supposed  that  no  Love 
would  ever  be  lost  between  those  countries." 

"The  'Globe'  says  that  '  Mr.  Clay  is  a  sharp  politician.'  No 
doubt  of  it,  but  the  editor  of  the  '  Globe  '  is  a  sharper." 

"Messrs.  Bell  and  Topp,  of  the  '  N.  C.  Gazette,'  say  that 
''Prentices  are  made  to  serve  masters.'  Well,  Bells  were  made  to 
be  hung,  and  Topps  to  be  whipped." 

Of  a  more  general  character,  a  few  witticisms  and  epi 
grams  may  be  given  : 

"  Wild  rye  and  wild  wheat  grow  in  some  regions  sponta 
neously.  We  believe  that  wild  oats  are  always  sown." 

"Men  are  deserters  in  adversity;  when  the  sun  sets,  and  all 
is  dark,  our  very  shadows  refuse  to  follow  us." 

"  A  well-known  writer  says  that  a  fine  coat  covers  a  multitude 
of  sins.  It  is  still  truer  that  such  coats  cover  a  multitude  of 
sinners." 

"When  a  man's  heart  ossifies,  or  turns  to  bone,  he  dies  at 
once;  but  if  it  petrifies,  or  turns  to  stone,  he  invariably  lives 
too  long  for  any  useful  purpose." 

"'What  would  you  do,  madam,  if  you  were  a  gentleman?' 
'  Sir,  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  one  ? '  " 

"  Whatever  Midas  touched  was  turned  into  gold  ;  in  these  days, 
touch  a  man  with  gold  and  he  '11  turn  into  anything." 

"The  botanists  tell  us  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  black 
flower.  We  suppose  they  never  heard  of  the  '  Coal-black  Rose.'" 
[This  was  the  heroine  of  an  old-time  negro  song.] 

"  The  man  who  lives  only  for  this  world  is  a  fool  here,  and 
there  is  danger  that  he  will  be  (we  speak  it  not  profanely)  a 
d— - d  fool  hereafter." 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

The  Louisville  Journal  was  never  exclusively  a  politi 
cal  paper,  although  it  was  that  chiefly.  It  gained,  and 
for  many  years  retained,  a  large  literary  reputation,  es 
pecially  as  an  avenue  to  the  public  for  young  poetical 
writers.  If,  as  I  have  suggested,  the  New  England  Re 
view  was  essentially  the  beginning  of  the  Louisville 
Journal,  then  the  name  of  Mr.  Whittier,  followed  per 
haps  by  that  of  Brainard,  may  head  the  long  list  of  the 
Journal's  occasional  contributors,  which  included,  later, 
the  names  of  James  Freeman  Clarke,  John  Howard 
Payne,  William  D.  Gallagher,  Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney, 
Mrs.  Amelia  Welby,  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  Mrs.  C.  A. 
Warfield,  Mrs.  Rosa  Vcrtner  Jeffrey,  Fortunatus  Cosby, 
William  Ross  Wallace,  William  W.  Fosdick,  William 
D.  Howells,  William  Wallace  Harney,  Forceythe  Will- 
son,  Elizabeth  Conwell  Smith  (afterward  Mrs.  Willson), 
and  others  more  or  less  known.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
think  greatly  of  all  these  writers,  but  this  partial  list  con 
tains  several  names  sure  of  long  life  and  honor  in  Ameri 
can  literature.  The  late  Forceythe  Willson,  for  example, 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  poets  yet  born  in  this  country, 
first  printed  his  peculiar  verses  in  Mr.  Prentice's  paper. 
Many  of  his  poems  show  somewhat  of  the  eccentricity 
and  strangeness  found  in  the  poetical  writings  of  William 
Blake  ;  but  three  or  four  of  them,  in  their  strong  and 
noble  sanity,  pathetic  power,  dramatic  realism,  lofty  and 
weird  imagination,  or  tender  beauty  and  delicacy  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxiil 

feeling,  may  safely  bo  said  to  be  far  more  valuable  tban 
all  of  Blake's  best  poetry,  and  hardly  inferior  to  Edgar  A. 
Poc's  half-dozen  leading  productions.  Several  of  Mrs. 
Welby's  poems,  which  Mr.  Prentice  had  originally  pub 
lished  and  commended,  Poe  himself  highly  praised,  saying 
of  her,  in  1848:  "Very  few  American  poets  are  at  all 
comparable  with  her  in  the  true  poetical  qualities.  As 
for  our  poetesses,  .  .  few  of  them  approach  her."  I  do 
not  think  poets  are  produced  by  encouragement,  but  many 
a  one  already  born  has  died  and  made  no  sign  for  lack 
of  it.  and — in  America,  where  recognition  of  delicate 
and  subtle  genius  in  literature  is  slower  than  in  other 
lands,  although  that  of  coarser  and  more  vulgar  strain  is 
perhaps  quicker  and  more  instant  than  elsewhere — such 
a  disposition  as  Mr.  Prentice,  in  the  midst  of  busy  politi 
cal  engrossment,  showed,  and  long  continued  to  show, 
sole  of  American  editors  before  or  since,  to  encourage 
poetic  manifestation,  is  memorable,  and  destined  not  to 
be  soon  forgotten  in  the  history  of  American  literature. 
As  a  specimen  of  his  occasional  private  encouragement, 
I  will  quote  from  a  letter  written  by  him  to  a  young  girl, 
who,  as  he  thought,  exhibited  unmistakeable  genius  of 
higl\ order,  and  for  whom  he  always  cherished,  until  his 
death,  the  sinccrcst  and  highest  regard.  A  friend  had 
shown  him  some  of  her  girlish  verses,  which  he  had  pub 
lished,  and  he  had  already  written  to  her  more  briefly 
concerning  them.  It  will  be  observed  that  his  confident 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

prophecy  is  well   guarded  by  wise  conditions,  and  his 
criticism  and  advice  are  no  less  wise  than  gentle  : 

"Dec.  25,  [1855-] 

"  I  am  glad  that  my  brief  letter  was  gratifying  to  you.  Having 
heard  that  you  are  a  little  cynical,  I  did  not  know  how  you  would 
receive  it.  But,  thinking  that  you  perhaps  needed,  and  knowing 
that  you  deserved,  encouragement,  I  resolved  to  express  to  you 
my  appreciation  of  your  genius.  And  I  now  say  emphatically 
to  you  again,  as  I  believe  I  said  to  you  then,  that,  if  you  are 
entirely  true  to  yourself,  and  if  your  life  be  spared,  you  will,  in 
the  maturity  of  your  powers,  be  the  first  poet  of  your  sex  in  the 
United  States.  I  say  this,  not  as  what  I  think,  but  as  what  I 
know. 

.  .  "  It  was  far  from  my  design  to  suggest  to  you  not  to 
write  poetry  in  your  hours  of  sadness.  We  must  all  have  hours 
of  mournful  feeling,  and  probably  it  is  the  case  with  most  poets 
that  their  somber  and  melancholy  thoughts  and  reflections  are 
more  essentially  poetical  than  their  joyous  ones.  I  would  have 
you  utter  all  the  poetical  thoughts  that  arise  in  your  soul  except 
the  morbid  and  misanthropic  ones  A  tender  sorrow  is  as 
healthful  as  joy,  and  as  beautiful.  Strike  all  that  is  sad  from 
the  works  of  our  greatest  poets,  and  their  fame  would  be  more 
than  half  destroyed. 

'  Who  would  be  doomed  to  look  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  ?  ' 

.  .  .  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  your  mind,  as  you  intimate,  has 
felt  the  unhealthful  influences  of  the  pages  of  Byron.  I  have, 
like  yourself,  an  almost  boundless  admiration  for  the  genius  of 
that  extraordinary  man,  but  I  do  believe  that  it  would  have  been 
better  for  mankind  if  he  had  never  lived.  I  think  that  he  made 
his  mighty  gifts  a  curse  to  the  world.  It  is  unfortunate  that 
greatness  ever  exists  without  goodness — that  there  should  ever 
be  a  great  soul  that  neither  loves  man  nor  worships  God.  The 
glitter  of  the  genius  of  an  unhallowed  nature  is  like  the  flashes 
of  the  lightning  on  a  rock-bound  coast,  revealing  only  wreck 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  XXV 

and  desolation.  Read  Byron,  if  you  will,  but  do  not  yield 
yourself  up  to  the  fascinations  of  the  deadly  serpent  that  coils 
among  the  beautiful  and  glorious  flowers  upon  his  page. 

"The  nerves  of  my  fingers  are  so  diseased  that  I  usually  do  all 
my  writing  by  an  amanuensis.  This  is  the  longest  letter  that  I 
have  written  with  my  own  hand  for  fifteen  years.  I  hope  you 
will  write  to  me.  Your  friend, 

"  GEO.  D.  PRENTICE." 

The  allusion  in  the  closing  paragraph  was  to  a  paraly 
sis  in  his  writing  fingers,  (a  disease  known  profession 
ally,  I  believe,  as  chorea  scriptorum,)  which,  during  the 
last  twenty -five  years  of  his  life,  made  dictation  to  an 
amanuensis  necessary  for  the  great  mass  of  his  editorial 
writing.  By  painful  exertion,  however,  he  often  wrote 
paragraphs  and  brief  notes  with  his  own  hand.  At  one 
time  he  learned  to  use  the  pen  in  his  left  hand,  and  at 
another  he  tried  a  writing-machine.  The  letter  from 
which  I  have  quoted,  like  many  later  ones  in  mv  posses 
sion,  appears  in  his  own  neat,  delicate,  and  always  care 
fully  punctuated  and  legible  manuscript. 

During  his  lifetime  the  reputation  which  Mr.  Prentice 
enjoyed  for  his  own  poetry  was  hardly  less  than  that 
which  his  wit  and  humor  gave  him.  I  have  already  said 
that  the  lines  entitled  "At  my  Mother's  Grave,"  which 
have  been  highly  praised  for  their  melodious  tenderness 
and  mournful  beauty  of  feeling,  were  written,  while  their 
author  was  yet  in  his  boyhood,  before  he  entered  college. 
Mr.  Prentice  certainly  began  his  career  as  a  poet,  but,  like 


xxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  he  made  journalism  the  business 
of  his  life.  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Bryant  has  ever  given  him 
self  up  so  entirely  to  his  public  profession  as  did  Mr. 
Prentice.  The  latter,  as  an  editor,  was  always  a  great 
worker — rising  early  (as  I  remember  him  in  some  of  the 
closing  years  of  his  life)  and  going  to  his  editorial  table, 
while  merchants'  clerks  were  yet  at  breakfast ;  then 
sitting,  with  brief  intervals,  throughout  the  day,  and 
often  until  late  at  night,  devoting  himself  to  his  end 
less  task-work.  But  all  along,  from  youth  to  the  ap 
proach  of  old  age,  he  retained  his  early  freshness  of  feel 
ing  and  appetite  for  poetry,  and  continued  to  write  it. 
Although  he  produced  his  most  distinctive  and  popular 
poems  while  voung,  many  of  his  later  pieces  seem 
hardly  inferior  to  his  best  early  ones. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  there  is  no  other  American 
poet,  except  Mr.  Bryant,  who  has  so  finely  handled  blank 
verse  as  Mr.  Prentice  has  done  in  several  of  his  princi 
pal  poems.  His  blank  verse,  indeed,  occasionally  sug 
gests  a  resemblance  to  that  of  Mr.  Bryant,  although 
much  more  of  emotional  element  and  warmth  of  color — 
the  visible  life  of  human  passion — are  noticeable  in  it. 
He  lacked  that  careful  eye  for  the  little  half-secrets  of 
Nature  shown  by  Mr.  Bryant,  but  his  real  love  of 
Nature  was  no  less  true.  Born  in  the  country,  he  never 
lost  its  early  influence  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  city, 
as  one  may  clearly  read  in  the  fragments  (which  I  have 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxvii 

found  only  under  distinct  heads,  but  have  placed  together 
under  one)  entitled  u  My  Old  Home."  In  nearly  all  of 
Mr.  Prentice's  more  serious  poetry — especially  in  his 
blank-verse  poems — the  current  of  feeling  is  in  sympathy 
with  the  great  works  of  Nature  ;  we  find  frequent  allu 
sions  to  the  stars,  the  ocean,  mountains,  clouds,  winds, 
storms,  and  rainbows — to  the  beautiful  and  wonderful 
facts  and  phenomena  of  earth  and  sky. 

If  "  Thanatopsis"  is  Mr.  Bryant's  representative  poem 
in  blank  verse,  u  The  Closing  Year  "  may  be  said  to  be 
that  of  Mr.  Prentice — it  has  long  been  so  at  least  in  popu 
lar  regard.  I  do  not  know  where  there  may  be  found 
a  more  stately  and  solemn  meditation  on  the  flight  of 
Time,  and  the  changes  wrought  thereby,  than  this  poem 
presents  ;  and  I  doubt  if  in  English  poetry  there  exists 
a  more  striking  or  loftier  personification  of  Time,  aud 
allusion  to  his  conquests,  than  its  concluding  lines  afford. 
One  of  Mr.  Prentice's  faults  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
of  his  pieces,  is  an  overstrong  tendency  to  rhetorical 
movement  and  effect.  "  The  River  in  the  Mammoth 
Cave''  is  freer  from  this  fault,  though  it  has  in  one  of  its 
lines  another  fault,  too  frequent  in  Mr.  Prentice's  poetry 
— unhappy  use  of  metaphor.  He  is  speaking  of  the  vari 
ous  formations  in  the  great  cavern  resembling  flowers, 

"  Carved  by  the  magic  fin gcrs  of  the  drops" 
But  this  poem  seems  to  me  one  of  his  best,  and  I  pro 


xxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

for  it  to  "  The  Closing  Year : "  it  has  a  peculiar  som- 
berness  of  quiet  feeling — its  current  of  sentiment  is  as 
mournfully  toned  as  the  weird  river  it  celebrates.  "  The 
Mammoth  Cave"  is  more  cheerful  in  its  teaching,  but 
is  hardly  less  striking. 

Among  others  of  Mr.  Prentice's  poems  in  blank  verse 
may  be  mentioned  the  piece  entitled  "  My  Mother," 
which  is  in  parts  very  tender  and  touching,  with  great 
beauty  of  expression,  and  indicates  the  strong  hold  his 
mother's  memory  had  upon  his  heart  during  his  busy, 
striving,  and  stormy  manhood.  I  think  it  hardly  inferior 
to  Cowper's  lines  referring  to  his  mother's  picture — the 
experience  given  in  them,  the  remembrance  of  a  mother's 
death  in  early  boyhood,  is  similar.  u  The  Grave  of  the 
Beautiful"  is  touched  with  lovely  and  delicate  hues  of 
feeling,  as  is  also  "  The  Invalid's  Reply."  The  last- 
named  has  passages  of  exquisite  beauty  and  tenderness. 
"Lookout  Mountain,"  "Thoughts  on  the  Far  Past,"  and 
"On  the  Summit  of  the  Sierra  Madrc"  arc  among  the 
latest  poems  in  blank  verse  by  Mr.  Prentice.  They 
\vcrc  all  written  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life. 
The  first  of  the  three  pieces  just  mentioned  realizes 
with  much  vigor  the  desperate  fight  described  —  the  battle 
above  the  clouds;  and  each  of  them  has  passages  of  fine 
quality,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  surpass  with  quo 
tation  from  recent  American  or  English  blank  verse. 

Among  his  many  poems  in  rhyme,  the  verses  "To  an 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxix 

Absent  Wife," — written,  white  Mr.  Prentice  was  visit- 
in"-  a  water-cure  establishment  on  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 

C) 

many  years  ago,  in  ill  health — have  been  deservedly 
popular ;  the  last  stanza  is  particularly  terse  and  beau 
tiful  : 

"I  sink  in  dreams  : — low,  sweet,  and  clear, 

Thy  own  dear  voice  is  in  my  ear; 

Around  my  neck  thy  tresses  twine; 

Thy  own  loved  hand  is  clasped  in  mine; 

Thy  own  soft  lip  to  mine  is  pressed ; 

Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast: — 

Oh !  I  have  all  my  heart  holds  dear, 

And  I  am  happy — thou  art  here  !  " 

Of  other  pieces  tender  in  sentiment,  but  referring  to 
more  youthful  experience — and  written  in  his  youth — 
there  are  several,  of  which  the  one  entitled  "  Memories" 
is  perhaps  the  most  pleasing. 

Mr.  Prentice  wrote  many  poems  merely  sentimental, 
without  any  real  root  in  the  heart ;  and  not  a  few  of 
these,  some  of  which  are  included  in  this  volume,  are 
commonplace  ;  too  many  of  them  contain  identical  allu 
sions  and  figures — indeed,  he  had  an  easy  disposition  to 
repeat  himself,  especially  in  the  many  pieces  which  he 
addressed  to  persons.  But  several  of  his  sentimental 
poems  are  very  delicately  finished — "  To  a  Bunch  of 
Roses,"  and  "Lines  to  a  Lady,"  for  example.  The  first 
named,  particularly,  is  exquisite,  and  both  show  the  poet's 
terseness  and  epigrammatic  felicity  of  expression.  Two 
or  three  pieces  of  still  lighter  quality  may  be  mentioned 


xxx  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

as  good  specimens  of  vcrs  de  societe — "  The  Bouquet's 
Compliments,"  "Fanny,"  and  "  To  the  Daughter  of  an 
Old  Sweetheart." 

Mr.  Prentice  was  always  modest  regarding  his  poetic 
gift,  as  he  was  indeed  modest  regarding  all  his  gifts.  I 
remember  to  have  heard  him  say,  soon  after  I  first  knew 
him,  that  he  did  not  think  himself  entitled  to  the  name 
of  poet,  for  which  he  had  an  exalted  respect.  Yet  from 
first  to  last,  something  of  the  poetic  distinction  was 
always  observable  even  in  his  more  serious  prose,  which 
has  here  and  there  poetic  color  and  cadence — and  indeed 
it  shows  itself  occasionally  in  his  volume  of  paragraphs, 
lie  was  often  persuaded  to  publish  his  poems  in  book 
form,  many  years  before  his  death,  but  always  declined, 
preferring  they  should  only  appear  in  this  shape  after 
that  event. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Prentice's  editorial 
writing  was  confined  to  his  myriad  brief  paragraphs. 
These  were  but  the  quick  skirmishers  of  his  moving 
and  active  force.  lie  wrote  long  and  earnest,  often  elo 
quent  and  powerful,  leading  articles,  throughout  his  edi 
torial  career,  on  all  themes  of  large  general  or  political 
interest.  Having  great  fertility  of  resources,  he  would 
sometimes  produce,  in  a  single  day,  matter  enough  for 
use  in  several  successive  numbers  of  the  Journal.  Be 
sides  doing  this  work  addressed  directly  to  the  public, 
and  besides  writing  his  poems,  he  was  always  a  frequent 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxi 

letter-writer.  Knowing  intimately  most  of  the  leading 
public  men  of  his  day — statesmen,  politicians,  editors, 
military  men,  artists,  and  authors — they  were  his  occa 
sional  correspondents.  He  wrote  numerous  letters  to 
ladies — very  many  of  whom,  distinguished  in  literature 
or  society,  were  his  acquaintances  and  friends  ;  I  dare 
say  that  his  best  and  most  characteristic  letters  were  of 
the  latter  class.  From  a  number  which  lie  before  me,  I 
will  copy  three  or  four,  in  whole  or  part,  to  show  the 
quality  of  his  epistolary  writing  ;  in  doing  so  I  shall  inci 
dentally  illustrate  the  gentler  social  and  domestic  side  of 
his  character.  These  letters  are  full  of  familiar  gossip, 
playful  wit,  and  humorous  pleasantry.  His  correspon 
dent  was  the  same  young  lady  to  whom  a  letter  already 
quoted  was  addressed  two  or  three  years  earlier.  Be 
tween  her  and  the  ladies  of  his  household — which,  be 
sides  Mrs.  Prentice,  included  his  brother's  daughter  and 
the  sister  cf  his  most  valued  and  confidential  editorial 
associate — there  was  a  friendly  intimacy,  and  she  had 
recently  visited  them  : 

"Ocf.  21,  [1858.] 
"  Mrs.  Prentice  and  the  j'oung  ladies  are  delighted  to  hear  from 

you,  and  all  send  you  their  love.    Mr.  B is  now  one  of  us,  and 

I  trust  that  he  will  not  soon  leave  us.  His  genial  feelings,  his 
quiet  wit,  his  gentle  manners,  and  his  keen  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful  and"  the  good  make  him  a  very  charming  companion. 
But  I  believe  I  need  not  praise  him  to  you. 


xxxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

"We  have  had  some  good  laughs  about  jour  Memphis  ad 
mirer,  who,  I  believe,  is  really  a  very  clever  fellow.  A  couple  of 

days  after  you  left  here,  he  addressed  a  formal  note  to  II , 

informing  her,  in  words  ominous  of  a  solemn  intent,  that  he 
wished  to  call  and  see  her  at  a  particular  hour.  He  made  the  call, 
and  afterward  came  to  me  and  asked  my  consent  to  let  him  in 
vite  her  to  the  theater.  He  got  my  consent,  but  failed  to  get  hers, 
and  she  has  not  seen  him  since.  So  she  will  not  be  at  all  in 
your  way." 

The  illness  mentioned  in  the  following  letter  was  an 
erysipelas  which  attacked  Mr.  Prentice  in  his  face,  and 
confined  him  to  a  darkened  room  for  several  weeks. 
The  mock-earnest  allusion  to  young  men  and  women 
playing  at  cross-purposes  in  love  is  charming,  and  very 
characteristic  ;  it  recalls  that  little  poem  of  Moschus, 
which  Shelley  has  translated,  beginning  : 

"  Pan  loved  his  neighbor,  Echo — but  that  child,"  etc. 

"Nov.  13,  [1858.] 

"I  have  been  hoping  all  along  to  be  able  to  come  to  N • 

for  M S to-day,  but  I  am  disappointed.    Her  brother  goes 

for  her,  and  I  send  by  him  this  little  missive  of  memory  and 
affection. 

"  I  was  out  of  my  prison  for  a  little  while  three  or  four  daj-s  ago, 
but  I  am  back  in  it  now,  without  any  stiong  hope  of  a  speedy  re 
lease.  My  patience,  which  was  considerable,  is  utterly  exhausted, 
and  I  almost  wish  to  die.  I  requested  my  barber,  when  he 
visited  me  this  morning,  to  cut  my  throat  for  me;  but  he  de 
clined  doing  it,  and  somehow  I  do  n't  altogether  like  to  do  it  my 
self.  Not  unfrequently,  however,  I  find  myself  repeating,  with 
vehement  gesture,  the  soliloquy  of  the  Danish  gentleman  who 
saw  his  father's  ghost,  '  To  be  or  not  to  be— that  is  the  question.' 
"  I  had  engagements  abroad  for  the  present  month,  which  would 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH,  xxxiii 

have  been  worth  nearly thousand  dollars  to  me,  but  I  have 

had  to  abandon  them  all.  This  poor,  pitiful  malady,  which  has 
not  even  the  dignity  of  being  dangerous,  has  compelled  me  to 
give  them  up,  and  may  force  me  to  give  up  those  of  December 
and  January.  I  do  not  know  of  any  one  who  guards  his  health 
more  vigilantly  than  I  do  mine,  and  certainly  I  know  of  no  one 
whose  vigilance  is  more  indifferently  rewarded.  'Tis  very  hard, 
but,  I  suppose,  perfectly  right.  This  sounds  very  much  like  resig 
nation — doesn't  it?  But  I  am  not  resigned,  and  I  can  not  be. 

"  Mr.  S will  tell  3-011  that  we  are  all  well  except  myself.  We 

all  retain  a  sweet  memory  cf  your  visit,  and  cherish  the  hope  that 

you  will  ere  long  come  to  us  again.  Mr.  B has  been  getting 

ready  to  paint  portraits,  and  expects  to  be  able  to  open  his  room 
on  Monday.  I  regret  deeply  that  I  can  not  be  out,  for  I  should 
be  able  to  bring  him  at  once  as  much  work  as  he  can  do. 
I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that,  even  if  I  have  to  lie  here,  he 
will  do  well,  for  he  is  a  fine  artist,  and  has  a  great  many  ad 
mirers  and  friends.  You  seem  to  have  objected  to  his  addressing 

a  piece  of  poetry  to  ' '  [a  pseudonym].  Ah,  you  were  a 

little  jealous,  I  suppose.  However,  you  need  n't  have  been,  for 

you  perhaps  saw,  from  a  subsequent  number  of  the ,  that, 

although  he  was  in  love  with  '  —  — ,'  there  was  no  chance  of  a 

match  in  the  case,  inasmuch  as  ' '  is  desperately  in  love 

with  me.  How  young  men  and  women  do  play  at  cross-pur 
poses.  Here's  poor  Mr.  B.  in  love  with  ' '  and  poor 

' '  in  love  with  me,  and  poor  I  in  love  with  vou,  and 

poor  j'ou  in  love  with  somebody  else,  or  rather  a  dozen  some 
body  elses.  The  Lord  pity  us  ! 

"I  had  a  letter  from  A yesterday,  and  have  had  three 

or  four  from  her  quite  recently.  She  tells  me  that  she  has  just 
written  to  you,  and  uses  many  words  of  love  and  endearment  in 
speaking  of  you.  .  .  .  She  is  a  young  girl  with  many  of  a 
j-oung  girl's  weaknesses,  but,  in  view  of  her  genius,  I  almost  feel 
toward  her,  whether  absent  from  her  or  present  with  her,  the 
awe  that  a  glorious  young  prophetess  would  inspire.  .  .  . 

"Won't  you  send  me  a  few  lines  by  M S ?     Do,  for 


xxxiv  BIOGRAPHICAT.  SKETCH. 

your  words  will   come  like  sweet  tones   of  music  into   my  sad 

room Devotedly  your  friend, 

"  GEO.  D.  PRENTICE." 

In  this  next  letter  the  writer  .has  recovered  from  his 
illness,  and  makes  humorous  allusion  to  its  nature.  The 
letter  is  full  of  gayety  and  brightness  ;  Mr.  Prentice's 
wit  and  humor  show  themselves  at  genial  play  through 
out.  In  each  of  these  quoted  letters,  since  I  present  them 
only  as  specimens  of  his  writing,  I  have  removed  the 
real  names,  or  veiled  them  under  initials: 

11  Nov.  20,  [1858.] 

"  I  am  out  of  my  sick  room  at  last,  and  looking  handsomer 
than  you  ever  saw  me  in  your  life.  It  seems  I  did  not  bear  inv 
malady  with  as  much  fortitude  as  you  would  have  expected  of 
me.  Well,  I  acknowledge  that  fortitude  and  patience  did  give 
way.  I  could  have  borne  the  pain  well  enough,  and,  if  the 
malady  had  been  dangerous,  I  suppose  I  could  have  stood  that 
tolerably  well  for  a  sinner,  but  then,  you  see,  the  foul  fiend  at 
tacked  my  beauty^  and,  even  if  I  had  been  as  good  a  Christian  as 
you  are,  I  should  no  doubt  have  murmured  and  grumbled  at 
that. 

"You  complain  that  I  do  not  answer  j-our  questions.  Well, 
I  will,  so  far  as  I  can  remember  them,  though  I  do  n't  think  you 

always  mean  much  by  them.    I  think  that  Mr. ,  of  Memphis, 

was  really  inconsolable.  He  did  not  go  off  at  the  time  he  had 
intended,  nor  for  ten  days  afterward,  although  he  had  no  busi 
ness  here.  Several  times,  when  II was  shopping,  he  walked 

back  and  forth  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  to  obtain  the 
small  comfort  of  a  look  at  her,  though  he  never  ventured  to  call 
upon  her  after  his  repulse.  Byron  says  that 

'  There  is  nothing'  so  consoles  a  man 
As  rum  and  true  religion,' 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxv 

and,  as  Mr.  does   not  enjoy  the  consolations  of  religion,  I 

rather  think  he  betook  himself  slightly  to  rum. 

"I  have  not  seen  Gov.  INI since  you  left  us.     I  have  had 

two  letters  from  him,  and  in  each  of  them  he  talks  about  R , 

but  says  not  a  word  about  you.  Hang  him  !  he  has  no  taste, 
and  I  will  never  support  him  again  for  Governor  or  anything 

else — unless,  indeed,  R bids  me  do  it;  for  3-0 u  know  I  could 

refuse  nothing  to  her.     Judge ,  until  your  visit  here,  was  a 

most  indefatigable  beau,  but  I  have  not  heard  of  his  visit  to  a 
lady  since.  He  looks  very  melancholy,  and  sighs  like  a  bellows 
— pining  himself  to  death,  I  fear,  for  that  pretty  curl  of  yours. 
lie  thought  the  curl  troublesome  to  you,  but  it  has  no  doubt  been 
a  thousand  times  more  troublesome  to  him — poor  fellow !  I  learn 
that  three  or  four  prisoners  have  been  sent  to  the  penitentiary 
simply  from  his  absence  of  mind  or  inattention  to  his  duties  upon 

the  bench  ;    and   I  think  you  ought  to  ask  Gov.  M for  their 

pardon,  or  rather  to  persuade  R to  do  so.     What  say  you? 

"  We.  often  talk  of  you  in  our  family  as  familiarly  and  affec 
tionately  as  if  you  belonged  to  it — and  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  did. 

You  ask  why  Mr. ,  while  all  the  rest  send  love  to  you,  never 

sends  even  his  compliments.  1  think  the  reason  must  be — first 
that  he  is  very  far  from  being  a  '  demonstrative'  young  gentle 
man,  and  secondly,  that  he  probably  never  knows  when  I  am 
going  to  write  to  you.  lie  certainly  admires  your  genius  very 
much.  He  was  the  first  person  that  ever  mentioned  you  to  me. 

On  his  return  from  N -,  about  three  years  ago,  he  exclaimed 

to  me,  with  as  near  an  approach  to  enthusiasm  as  he  ever  makes, 

'I  have  discovered  a  new  poet.' 

•:•:-  v  -X-  v  >/f  •;•  # 

"M S will  probably  write  you   to-day,  and  I  believe 

she  has  redeemed  her  promise  in  regard  to  Z .     Mr.  13 

thinks  your  poem  to  him  [a  pleasantry  of  make-believe  senti 
ment,  written  in  company  with  the  your.g  ladies  of  Mr.  Pren 
tice's  household,  which  accidentally  got  into  print.]  the  sweetest 
thing  in  the  world,  and  I  suppose  he  will  attempt  a  retort,  of 
course.  You  have  probably  observed  that,  in  his  poetry,  he 
has  recently  been  going  into  the  love-making  line  pretty  exten- 


xxxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

sively.  I  never  write  love  poetry  to  the  ladies  now.  If  I  let 
them  write  it  to  me,  I  think  'tis  quite  as  much  as  they  can  rea 
sonably  expect." 

Of  more  serious  expressions  than  are  found  in  the 
foregoing,  not  a  few  quotations  might  be  made.  Here 
is  one  in  which  Mr.  Prentice  refers  to  his  religious 
faith — the  letter  from  which  it  is  taken,  though  addressed 
to  the  sams  person,  was  written  a  year  or  two  before 
those  last  quoted  : 

"I  rejoice,  my  little  friend,  that  you  are  a  believer.  For  my 
own  part,  I  have  no  doubt  either  of  the  truths  of  Christianity,  or 
of  the  momentous  and  infinite  importance  of  those  truths.  I  hear 
a  thousand  things  from  the  pulpit  that  make"  me  smile,  yet  I 
would  rather  be  a  Christian  of  the  very  humblest  order  of  intel 
lect  than  the  most  gloriously-gifted  infidel  that  ever  blazed  like 
a  comet  through  the  atmosphere  of  earth." 

And  here  is  an  earnest  and  eloquent  passage  concern 
ing  "the  fame  that  men  hunt  after  in  their  lives,"  with 
which  I  may  fitly  close  my  quotations,  and  return  to  the 
current  of  Mr.  Prentice's  life  : 

"I  think,  my  youilg  friend,  that  you  mean  to  be  a  little  satiri 
cal  when  you  allude  to  what  I  said  about  your  ability  to  win  a 
fame  that  might  shine  like  a  star  above  your  lomb.  The  figure 
may  not  be  a  happy  one,  but  I  am  sure  there  is  in  jrour  heart,  as 
in  all  high  hearts,  a  craving  to  be  remembered  among  men. 
There  is  a  mighty  hunger  of  the  soul,  which  only  the  dream 
of  fame  can  appease.  .  .  .  You  may  call  fame  an  '  igjn's 
fatHus?  but  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men  have  worshiped,  and 
will  ever  worship  it,  as  devoutly  as  the  Persian  bowed  to  the 
eternal  fires  of  the  sky." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxvii 

During  several  years  immediately  preceding  the 
Southern  Rebellion,  Mr.  Prentice  appeared  at  seasons 
as  a  public  lecturer,  delivering  two  or  three  discourses 
on  national  politics  in  many  of  the  Northern  and  South 
ern  cities.  One  of  his  lectures  had  for  its  theme  the 
American  Statesmanship  of  the  day.  In  this  he  pre 
sented  a  gloomy  outlook  at  the  future  of  the  country. 
A  life-long  admirer  and  friend  of  Henry  Clay,  he  la 
mented  the  latter' s  comparatively  recent  departure  :  — 
"Ulysses,"  he  said,  "has  gone  upon  his  wandering,  and 
there  is  none  left  in  all  Ithaca  to  bend  his  bow."  He 
predicted  wide  public  misfortune,  and  his  dark  prophe 
cies  were  criticised  as  morbidly  melancholy ;  but  the 
result  proved  their  groundwork  of  truth.  The  South 
ern  secession  movement  was  already  brooding,  and 
soon  the  storm  fell.  Mr.  Prentice  opposed  the  South 
ern  movement  earnestly,  in  private  conversation  and  in 
print,  from  the  first.  He  had  no  doubt,  he  often  said, 
of  the  result  of  the  civil  war  which  he  thought  would 
certainly  follow  the  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  and 
the  consequent  secession  of  the  South ;  but  the  Bell 
and  Everett  party — the  temporary  Conservative  Union 
party,  which  he  warmly  supported — having  failed,  he 
recognized  no  other  course  but  to  accept,  and,  if  neces 
sary,  support  the  Republican  Union  administration  of 
Lincoln. 

Strong  efforts  were  made  by  the  Southern  leaders  to 


xxxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

secure  the  Journal's  powerful  influence  in  behalf  of  the 
Confederacy  ;  but,  although  one  or  two  of  his  business 
associates  were  not  indisposed  to  accept  the  overtures, 
Mr.  Prentice  persistently  turned  his  face  away.  After 
ward,  I  remember,  he  told  me  that  he  might  have  be 
come  very  wealthy  if  he  had  joined  the  fortunes  of  the 
Rebellion.  The  importance  of  keeping  the  Louisville 

/  Journal  as  an  active  support  of  the  Union  cause  in  Ken 
tucky,  was  recognized  at  the  national  capital,  and  its 
large  immediate  loss  of  Southern  patronage  was  in  part 
compensated  by  the  Federal  government.  Mr.  Prentice 
visited  Washington  several  times  during  the  years  1861 
and  1862,  and  was  always  treated  with  distinction  by 
the  President  and  his  cabinet.  President  Lincoln,  who 
had  been  an  early  reader  and  admirer  of  the  Louis 
ville  Journal,  held  its  editor  in  high  esteem,  and,  during 
the  early  months  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  administration,  Mr. 
Prentice  had  strong  personal  influence  with  him.  At 
a  dinner  given  to  Mr.  Prentice,  in  Washington,  early 
in  1862,  by  a  prominent  Republican  official,  various 
members  of  the  cabinet  being  present,  he  was  toasted 
by  the  Secretary  of  War  as  having  himself  charge  of  the 
War  Department  yi  Kentucky.  The  Louisville  Journal 

/  was  largely  instrumental  in  keeping  Kentucky  within 
the  Union. 

Mr.  Prentice's  course,  however,  though  it  was  his  path 
of  duty,  was    a    painful    one.     Both   of  his   sons   were 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxix 

eagerly  Southern  in  feeling,  each  having  been  educated 
in  part  at  Southern  military  schools.  The  younger, 
Clarence,  could  not  be  restrained  from  joining  the  Con 
federate  army  at  the  start.  Mr.  Prentice's  elder  son, 
Courtland,  who  had  been  persuaded  to  remain  upon  a 
farm  which  his  father  had  given  him,  near  Louisville, 
during  the  early  months  of  the  Rebellion,  L.:ft  it — much 
to  his  father's  regret  and  disappointment — in  September, 
1862,  and  entered  a  company  belonging  to  Morgan's 
cavalry.  Mrs.  Prentice,  I  believe,  sent  her  heart  with 

N  her  boys,  sympathizing  with  the  cause  they  had  adopted. 
Less  than  a  month  after  Courtland  joined  the  Confed 
erate  army,  his  dead  body  was  brought  home  for  burial. 
He  was  killed  in  battle,  at  Augusta,  Ky.  Mr.  Prentice 
loved  his  sons  warmly,  and  the  death  of  this  one  gave 
him  great  sorrow.  He  wrote  to  me  a  few  weeks  later, 
saying :  "  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  your  sympathy.  I 
need  it,  and  I  need  God's  pity.  I  feel  very,  very  deso 
late.  The  wind  of  death  has  swept  over  my  life  and  left 
it  a  desert,  but  in  my  sadness  I  will  try  to  do  my  duty." 
And,  again,  somewhat  later,  he  said  :  "  I  am  in  bad 
spirits,  my  dear  friend,  for  my  own  sake  and  our  coun 
try's.  My  son  is  dead,  and  sometimes  I  almost  fear  that 

v-  my  country,  too,  may  perish.  I  see  no  palm-tree  upon 
the  desert  which  surrounds  me."  His  younger  son's 
early  connection  with  the  Rebellion  did  not  seem  to  have 
grieved  him  so  much.  Although  he  was  devotedly 


xl  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

attached   to   both  his   sons,  the  elder  seemed  to  be  his 
favorite. 

Meanwhile,  during  the  few  days  of  Courtland's  mili 
tary  life  in  an  invading  army,  (for  this  was  during  the 
Confederate  occupation  of  Kentucky,)  Mr.  Prentice  him 
self — in  a  city  where  his  dearest  friends  by  hundreds 
were  Confederates — was  one  of  the  easily-counted  tens 
willing  to  shoulder  his  gun  as  a  volunteer  home- 
guard,  to  protect  that  city  from  the  same  invading 
army.  Long  afterward,  he  told  me — as  something  which 
then  struck  him  humorously — of  a  midnight  alarm, 
during  this  brief  period  of  his  volunteer  service,  when 
it  was  supposed  the  enemy  was  advancing  upon  the 
city  ;  the  bells  were  rung,  a  premeditated  signal,  and 
out  of  hundreds  who  came  to  the  rendezvous,  there 
were  but  about  sixty  besides  himself  to  go  into  the 
ranks  for  instant  duty.  The  alarm,  however,  proved 
a  false  one. 

At  the  return  of  peace  Mr.  Prentice  was  an  old  man, 
and  the  days  of  his  popularity  and  power  were  gone. 
Mrs.  Prentice  died  in  April,  1868.  After  her  death  he 
lived  for  a  time  with  his  son  Clarence — who  had  con 
tinued  in  the  Confederate  service,  gaining  the  rank  of 
a  Colonel,  until  the  close  of  the  Rebellion — at  his  old 
home  in  Louisville ;  but,  Clarence  having  exchanged 
the  city  property,  which  had  been  given  him  by  his 
parents,  for  a  farm  several  miles  out  of  town,  Mr. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xli 

Prentice,  during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  occupied  a 
small  room  at  the  Journal  (then  recently  become  the 
Courier-Journal)  office— working,  eating,  sleeping  there, 
and,  since  he  was  in  ill  health  and  feeble  much  of  the 
time,  seldom  going  out.  Though  the  control  of  the 
newspaper  had  passed  into  other  hands,  he  still  worked 
steadfastly  on  in  the  old  way.  He  had  suffered  occa 
sionally  for  many  years  from  a  heart  disease,  which 
afflicted  him  seriously  during  the  hist  year  of  his  life, 
and  it  would  hardly  have  been  strange  if  he  had  been 
found  dead  some  morning  at  his  writing-table.  But, 
a  day  or  two  before  Christmas,  1869,  he  started  from 
Louisville,  during  a  season  of  bitter  winter  weather,  to 
visit  the  farm  of  his  son,  and,  riding  in  an  open  car 
riage,  contracted  a  severe  cold,  which,  developing  into 
pneumonia,  was  the  direct  cause  of  his  death.  He  died 
on  the  morning  of  January  22,  1870.  A  lady  who  was 
present  during  his  last  moments  asked  me  subsequently  : 
"  What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Prentice  meant  in  his  last 
expressions?  Just  before  his  death  he  seemed  to  arouse 
himself  and  said — we  heard  him  distinctly — '  I  want 
an  of  and  then,  again,  'I  want  an  i.'  We  at  first 
supposed  he  said,  '  I  want  to  go,'  and  these  were  re 
ported  to  have  been  his  last  words  ;  but  I  have  often 
thought  of  these  expressions,  and  wondered  what  could 
have  been  their  meaning."  Knowing  Mr.  Prentice's 
long  habit  of  dictation  in  writing,  and  his  manner 


x]ii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

of  correcting  his  manuscript,  which  he  always  seemed 
carefully  to  overlook  while  walking  to  and  fro,  or  sitting 
at  the  table  opposite  his  amanuensis,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  he  may  have  been  at  the  time  in  a  slight  delirium, 
and  supposed  himself  dictating  an  article.  I  think  this 
explanation  was  perhaps  a  just  one,  and  that  the  tireless 
,old  editor  died  in  a  dream  of  correcting  his  copy.  Yet 
he  had  always  kept  in  sight  his  early  religious  education, 
and  I  know  that  he  anticipated  his  death,  and,  I  believe, 
did  not  dread  it. 

In  person  Mr.  Prentice  was  slightly  above  the  medium 
stature,  with  a  figure,  when  in  vigorous  health,  inclined 
to  stoutness.  His  features  were  not  regular,  but  his  face 
was  for  the  most  part  pleasing ;  often,  when  animated, 
it  seemed  handsome.  His  head  was  finely  shaped,  hav 
ing  a  particularly  noble  and  impressive  forehead.  His 
hair  was  black,  but  somewhat  thin — retaining  its  black 
ness  until  quite  late  in  his  life.  He  had  dark -brown 
eyes,  rather  small,  full  of  light  and  sparkle  when  he  was 
in  a  happy  mood,  though  they  could  express  fierceness 
and  severity.  The  engraved  likeness  of  him  in  this  vol 
ume  is  from  a  daguerreotype  taken  about  the  year  1856 
or  1857,  when  he  was  between  fifty-four  and  fifty-five 
years  old.  It  represents  him  at  his  best,  as  I  remember 
him.  His  voice  was  low  and  agreeable  in  its  general 
tone.  Among  strangers  he  was  apt  to  be  reserved,  some 
times  embarrassed  ;  but  with  chosen  friends  his  conver- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xliii 

tion  was  fluent  and  free— often  full  of  characteristic 
brightness  and  humor  ;  at  other  times — when  touching 
the  loftier  themes  of  poetry  and  philosophy — seriously 
sweet  and  eloquent. 

The  leading  traits  of  Mr.  Prentice's  character  have 
been  illustrated,  I  believe,  in  the  facts  of  his  life  and 
the  quotations  from  his  writings  which  I  have  given. 
A  man  of  the  true  genus  irritabilc,  he  was  quickly  im 
pulsive,  but  his  impulses  were  full  of  generosity.  One 
of  his  friends  once  said  of  him  to  me  :  "  He  has  the  larg 
est  heart  that  ever  beat."  Mr.  G.  W.  Griffin,  who  pub 
lished  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Prentice's  life  some  years  ago,  re 
lates,  on  the  authority  of  Fortunatus  Cosby,  the  poet,  an 
anecdote  which  gives  happy  emphasis  to  what  I  have 

said  of  his  generosity  of  impulse.     A  man  named  

who  had  started  certain  scandalous  reports  concerning 
Mr.  Prentice,  which  the  latter  had  not  troubled  himself 
to  notice,  had  the  boldness  to  call  upon  him  at  his  office 
several  years  afterward,  with  outworn,  unclean  garments, 
and  in  a  repulsive  personal  condition.  Mr.  Cosby  being 

present, called  Mr.  Prentice  aside,  and,  after  a  little 

conversation,  left  the  room.  Mr.  Cosby,  a  familiar  friend 
of  Mr.  Prentice,  asked  the  name  of  his  unsightly  visitor. 

"  He  is  Thomas  Jefferson .     He  told  me  he  was  in 

distress,  and  that  he  wanted  two  dollars  and  a  half,  for  the 
purpose  of  going  to  see  his  mother."  "Yes,"  answered 
Mr.  Cosby,  "  and  I  suppose  you  were  silly  enough  to  give 


xliv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

it  to  him  ?  "  "  No,"  replied  Mr.  Prentice  ;  u  I  recollected 
that  I  had  a  mother,  and  asked  myself  the  question,  what 
she  would  have  thought  of  me  had  I  appeared  before  her 
in  such  a  condition.  I  gave  him  twenty-five  dollars,  and 
told  him  to  go  and  see  his  mother  in  the  dress  of  a  gentle 
man."  Thousands  of  dollars  were  given  away,  first  and 
last,  by  Mr.  Prentice  in  a  similar  manner,  to  needy  young 
men  passing  through  Louisville.  Mr.  Prentice  was  a 
warm  and  steadfast  friend,  and  a  noble  enemy.  That 
he  was  not  without  faults  I  need  not  deny.  One  of  his 
chief  faults,  as  he  once  confessed  to  me  pleasantly,  was 
a  life-long  inabilty  to  say  "No"  with  sufficient  distinct 
ness.  But  whatever  his  faults  may  have  been,  he  was 
always  cordial  in  acknowledging  the  virtues  of  others. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Prentice,  great  immediate 
respect  was  shown  to  his  memory  in  Louisville,  and 
throughout  the  country.  The  Legislatures  of  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee,  then  in  session,  each  passed  resolutions 
calling  his  death  a  public  grief.  The  Kentucky  Legisla 
ture  invited  Mr.  Henry  Watterson,  the  friend  and  asso 
ciate  of  his  latter  years,  to  prepare  and  deliver  an  ad 
dress  before  it  on  Mr.  Prentice's  career  and  character: — 
this  Mr.  Watterson  did  very  ably,  a  few  days  later. 

Mr.  Prentice  was  a  Mason,  and  his  body,  removed 
from  his  son's  house  to  Louisville,  was  permitted  to  lie 
in  state  during  one  day  in  the  Masonic  Temple,  where 
thousands  of  his  fellow-citizens — men,  women,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  xlv 

children — thronged  to  take  their  last  look  at  his  familiar 
face.  He  was  buried  with  Masonic  honors  in  Cave  Hill 
Cemetery,  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and  near  the  graves  of 
his  children.  No  monument  at  present  marks  his  grave, 
unless  a  rose-bush  which  stands  at  his  head  be  one. 
Once,  when  I  visited  it,  several  years  ago,  a  violet, 
planted  by  some  tender  hand,  was  growing  above  the 
poet's  breast,  recalling  his  early  lines  on  his  mother's 

grave  : 

"  The  violet,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild, 
Waves  o'er  thy  head;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child?" 

But  there  is  in  course  of  execution,  at  Louisville,  a 
statue,  considerably  larger  than  life-size,  in  Carrara  mar 
ble,  representing  Mr.  Prentice  sitting  in  his  editorial 
chair  in  an  accustomed  meditative  attitude,  which  is 
destined  to  stand,  supported  by  granite  pillars,  at  an  ele 
vation  of  nearly  forty  feet,  in  front  of  the  new  Courier- 
Journal  building,  adjoining  the  Public  Library  of  Ken 
tucky,  and  look  down  upon  the  busy  street  which  so  long 
knew  and  honored  Mr.  Prentice  in  life.  This  will  be  a 
fitting  local  monument  of  him  in  his  public  capacity  as 
an  editor,  statesman,  and  patriot ;  but  a  book  is  not  con 
fined  to  a  city,  and  I  believe  there  is  something  in  this 
volume  of  his  poems,  which,  although  it  may  not  be  a 
moving  and  active  force  in  the  busy  world,  will  survive 
the  marble  effigy  in  the  memory  of  men. 


POEMS 


OF 


GEORGE   D.  PRENTICE. 


THE   CLOSING  YEAR. 

?r  I  ^  IS  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 

JL  Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark  !  o*n  the  winds 
The  bell's  deep  notes  are  swelling.     'Tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  Year. 

No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past ;  yet  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is  stirred, 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh  ;   and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand — 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form, 
And  Winter  with  his  aged  locks — and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  for  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  Year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

'Tis  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  soecter  dim. 


50  THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 

Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 

And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 

And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 

On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 

The  coffin-lid  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  love, 

And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 

O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

The  Year 

Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 
It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful, 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  passed  o'er 
The  battle-plain,  where  sword  and  spear  and  shield 
Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  mouldering  skeleton.     It  came 


THE    CLOSING   TEAR.  51 

And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve  ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! — 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe  ! — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?     On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain-crag — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinion.     Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow  ;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water  ;  fiery  isles 
Spring,  blazing,  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns  ;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven  thejr  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain  ;  new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 


52  THE  CLOSING   YEAR. 

Startling  the  nations  ;  and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void  :  vet  Time, 
Time  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

r  I  ^HE  trembling  dew-drops  fall 

JL     Upon  the  shutting  flowers  ;  like  souls  at  rest, 
The  stars  shine  gloriously:  and  all, 
Save  me,  are  blest. 

Mother,  I  love  thy  grave  ! 
The  vio-let,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild, 
Waves  o'er  thy  head  ;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child  ? 

'Tis  a  sweet  flower,  yet  must 
Its  bright  leaves  to  the  coming  tempest  bow  ; 
Dear  mother,  'tis  thine  emblem — dust 
Is  on  thy  brow. 

And  I  could  love  to  die  : 

To  leave  untasted  life's  dark,  bitter  streams — 
By  thee,  as  erst  in  childhood,  lie, 
And  share  thy  dreams. 

And  must -I  linger  here, 
To  stain  the  plumage  of  my  sinless  years, 
And  mourn  the  hopes  to  childhood  dear 
With  bitter  tears  ? 


54  AT  MT  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

Aye,  must  I  linger  here, 
A  lonely  branch  upon  a  withered  tree, 
Whose  last  frail  leaf,  untimely  sere, 
Went  down  with  thee  ? 

Oft  from  life's  withered  bower, 
In  still  communion  with  the  Past,  I  turn, 
And  muse  on  thee,  the  only  flower 
In  Memory's  urn. 

And,  when  the  evening  pale 
Bows,  like  a  mourner,  on  the  dim  blue  wave, 
I  stray  to  hear  the  night-winds  wail 
Around  thy  grave. 

Where  is  thy  spirit  flown? 
I  gaze  above — thy  look  is  imaged  there  ; 
I  listen — and  thy  gentle  tone 
Is  on  the  air. 

Oh,  come,  while  here  I  press 
My  brow  upon  thy  grave  ;  and,  in  those  mild 
And  thrilling  tones  of  tenderness, 
Bless,  bless  thy  child  ! 

Yes,  bless  thy  weeping  child  ; 
And  o'er  thine  urn — Religion's  holiest  shrine- 
On,  give  his  spirit,  undefiled, 
To  blend  with  thine. 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

OH,  dark,  mysterious  stream,  I  sit  by  thee 
In  awe  profound,  as  myriad  wanderers 
Have  sat  before.     I  see  thy  waters  move 
From  out  the  ghostly  glimmerings  of  my  lamp 
Into  the  dark  beyond,  as  noiselessly 
As  if  thou  wert  a  somber  river  drawn 
Upon  a  spectral  canvas,  or  the  stream 
Of  dim  Oblivion  flowing  through  the  lone 
And  shadowry  vale  of  death.     There  is  no  wave 
To  whisper  on  thy  shore,  or  breathe  a  wail, 
Wounding  its  tender  bosom  on  thy  sharp 
And  jagged  rocks.     Innumerous  mingled  tones, 
The  voices  of  the  day  and  of  the  night, 
Are  ever  heard  through  all  our  outer  world, 
For  Nature  there  is  never  dumb  ;  but  here 
I  turn  and  turn  my  listening  ear,  and  catch 
No  mortal  sound,  save  that  of  my  own  heart, 
That  'mid  the  awful  stillness  throbs  aloud, 
Like  the  far  sea- surf 's  low  and  measured  beat 
Upon  its  rocky  shore.     But  when  a  cry, 
Or  shout,  or  song  is  raised,  how  wildly  back 


56          THE  RIVER  IN  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

Come  the  weird  echoes  from  a  thousand  rocks, 

As  if  unnumbered  airy  sentinels, 

The  genii  of  the  spot,  caught  up  the  voice, 

Repeating  it  in  wonder — a  wild  maze 

Of  spirit-tones,  a  wilderness  of  sounds, 

Earth-born  but  all  unearthly. 

Thou  dost  seem, 

O  wizard  stream,  a  river  of  the  dead — 
A  river  of  some  blasted,  perished  world, 
Wandering  forever  in  the  mystic  void. 
No  breeze  e'er  strays  across  thy  solemn  tide  ; 
No  bird  e'er  breaks  thy  surface  with  his  wing ; 
No  star,  or  sky,  or  bow,  is  ever  glassed 
Within  thy  depths  ;  no  flower  or  blade  e'er  breathes 
Its  fragrance  from  thy  bleak  banks  on  the  air. 
True,  here  are  flowers,  or  semblances  of  flowers, 
Carved  by  the  magic  fingers  of  the  drops 
That  fall  upon  thy  rocky  battlements — 
Fair  roses,  tulips,  pinks,  and  violets — 
All  white  as  cerements  of  the  coffined  dead  ; 
But  they  are  flowers  of  stone,  and  never  drank 
The  sunshine  or  the  dew.     O  somber  stream, 
Whence  comest  thou,  and  whither  goest?     Far 
Above,  upon  the  surface  of  old  Earth, 
A  hundred  rivers  o'er  thee  pass  and  sweep, 
In  music  and  in  sunshine,  to  the  sea  ; — 
Thou  art  not  born  of  them.     Whence  comest  thou, 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE.          57 

And  whither  goest?     None  of  earth  can  know. 

No  mortal  e'er  has  gazed  upon  thy  source — 

No  mortal  seen  where  thy  dark  waters  blend 

With  the  abyss  of  Ocean.     None  may  guess 

The  mysteries  of  thy  course.     Perchance  thou  hast 

A  hundred  mighty  cataracts,  thundering  down 

Toward  Earth's  eternal  center  ;  but  their  sound 

Is  not  for  ear  of  man.     All  we  can  know 

Is  that  thy  tide  rolls  out,  a  specter  stream, 

From  yon  stupendous,  frowning  wall  of  rock, 

And,  moving  on  a  little  way,  sinks  down 

Beneath  another  mass  of  rock  as  dark 

And  frowning,  even  as  life — our  little  life — 

Born  of  one  fathomless  eternity, 

Steals  on  a  moment  and  then  disappears 

In  an  eternity  as  fathomless. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE. 

'r  I  ^  IS  Morn: — the  sea-breeze  seems  to  bring 

JL       Joy,  health,  and  freshness  on  its  wing ; 
Bright  flowers,  to  me  all  strange  and  new, 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew, 
And  perfumes  rise  from  every  grove, 
As  incense  to  the  clouds  that  move 
Like  spirits  o'er  yon  welkin  clear  : 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  not  here  ! 

'Tis  Noon  : — a  calm,  unbroken  sleep 
Is  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep  ; 
A  soft  haze,  like  a  fairy  dream, 
Is  floating  over  wood  and  stream  ; 
And  many  a  broad  magnolia  flower, 
Within  its  shadowy  woodland  bower, 
Is  gleaming  like  a  lovely  star : 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  afar  ! 

'T  is  Eve  : — on  earth  the  sunset  skies 
Are  painting  their  own  Eden  dyes  ; 
The  stars  come  down,  and  trembling  glow 
Like  blossoms  on  the  waves  below  ; 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE.  59 

And,  like  an  unseen  spirit,  the  breeze 
Seems  lingering  'midst  these  orange  trees, 
Breathing  its  music  round  the  spot : 
But  I  am  sad — I  see  thee  not ! 

'T  is  Midnight : — with  a  soothing  spell, 
The  far  tones  of  the  ocean  swell, 
Soft  as  a  mother's  cadence  mild, 
Low  bending  o'er  her  sleeping  child  ; 
And  on  each  wandering  breeze  are  heard 
The  rich  notes  of  the  mocking-bird, 
In  many  a  wild  and  wondrous  lay : 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  away  ! 

I  sink  in  dreams  : — low,  sweet,  and  clear, 
Thy  own  dear  voice  is  in  my  ear ; 
Around  my  neck  thy  tresses  twine — 
Thy  own  loved  hand  is  clasped  in  mine — 
Thy  own  soft  lip  to  mine  is  pressed — 
Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast : — 
Oh !  I  have  all  my  heart  holds  dear, 
And  I  am  happy — thou  art  here  ! 


HARVEST  HYMN. 

AC    Carmel's  mount  the  prophet  laid 
His  offering  on  the  altar-stone, 
And  fire  descended  from  the  skies, 
And  round  the  holy  altar  shone  ; 
And  thus,  when  Spring  went  smiling  past, 
Our  offerings  on  the  earth  were  cast, 
And  God's  own  blessing  has  come  down, 
Our  sacrifice  of  faith  to  crown. 

No  conqueror  o'er  our  fields  has  gone, 

To  blast  with  war  our  summer  bowers, 
And  stain  with  blood  of  woe  and  guilt, 

The  soil  that  giveth  life  to  flowers  ; 
But  morning  clews  and  evening  rains 
Have  fallen  on  our  beauteous  plains, 
And  earth,  through  all  her  realms  abroad, 
Gives  back  the  image  of  her  God. 

Bright  with  the  Autumn's  richest  tints, 
Each  hill  lifts  up  its  head  on  high, 

And  spreads  its  fruits  and  blossoms  out, 
An  offering  meet  beneath  the  sky  ; 


HARVEST  HTMN.  Gl 

And  hill,  and  plain,  and  vale,  and  grove, 
Join  in  the  sacrifice  of  love, 
And  wind,  and  stream,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
Lift  high  their  hymns  of  ecstasy. 

It  is  the  festival  of  earth — 

The  flame  of  love  o'er  Nature  burns, 
And  to  the  holy  heavens  goes  up 

Like  incense  from  a  thousand  urns  ; 
And  oh,  let  man's  impassioned  voice, 
With  Nature's  self,  in  song  rejoice, 
Until  the  blended  notes  of  love 
Ring  from  the  temple-arch  above. 


AN  INFANT'S  GRAVE.* 

NOT  in  the  church-yard's  hallowed  ground, 
Where  marble  columns  rise  around. 
By  willow  or  by  cypress  shade, 
Are  thy  poor  little  relics  laid, 
Thou  sleepest  here,  all,  all  alone — 
No  other  grave  is  near  thine  own. 
'T  is  well,  'tis  well ;  but  oh,  such  fate 
Seems  very,  very  desolate. 

We  know  not  whence  thy  little  form 

Was  borne  through  rain,  and  wind,  and  storm  ; 

We  know  not  to  what  far-off  wild 

They  sought  to  take  thee,  lonely  child. 

We  only  know  thy  puny  life 

Was  all  unequal  to  the  strife, 

And  that  thy  dust  is  sleeping  here, 

Unwet  but  by  the  stranger's  tear. 

*A  few  months  ago,  I  stood  in  the  forest  of  Arkansas,  at  the 
grave  of  an  infant,  buried  from  an  emigrant's  wagon. 


AN  INFANT'S  GRAVE.  G3 

Alas,  what  bitter  tear-drops  stole 

From  thy  poor  mother's  stricken  soul, 

When  in  this  dark  and  gloomy  dell 

The  damp  clods  on  thy  bosom  fell : 

How  throbbed  her  brain,  how  throbbed  her  heart, 

When  mournfully  she  turned  to  part 

From  the  rude  mound  her  dear  one  o'er, 

To  gaze  upon  it  never  more  ! 

But  yet  it  matters  not,  poor  child, 
That  thou  must  sleep  in  this  lone  wild  ; 
Each  Spring-time,  as  it  wanders  past, 
Its  buds  and  blooms  will  round  thee  cast ; 
The  thick-leaved  boughs  and  moonbeams  pale 
Will  o'er  thee  spread  a  solemn  vail, 
And  softest  dews  and  showers  will  lave 
The  blossoms  on  the  infant's  grave. 

Farewell !  I've  paused  one  little  hour 
To  plant,  lone  child,  this  humble  flower 
Above  thy  dust,  and  now  I  grieve 
To  leave  thee  as  all  others  leave. 
Farewell  i  farewell !  where'er  I  stray, 
This  mournful  scene  will  with  me  stay — 
A  picture  hung  upon  the  walls 
Of  memory's  dim  and  somber  halls. 


THE  ISLE  AND  STAR. 

IN  the  tropical  seas 
There's  a  beautiful  isle, 
Where  storms  never  darken 

The  sunlight's  soft  smile. 
There  the  hymn  of  the  breeze 

And  the  hymn  of  the  stream 
Are  mingled  in  one, 

Like  sweet  sounds  in  a  dream. 
There  the  song-birds  at  morn 

From  the  thick  shadows  start, 
Like  musical  thoughts 

From  the  poet's  full  heart. 
There  the  song-birds  at  noon, 

Sit  in  silence  unbroken, 
Like  an  exquisite  dream 

In  the  bosom,  unspoken. 
There  the  flowers  hang  like  rainbows 

On  wild  wood  and  lea  : — 
O,  say  wilt  thoti  dwell 

In  that  sweet  isle  with  me  ? 


THE  ISLE  AND  STAR.  65 

111  the  depth  of  the  sky 

There's  a  beautiful  star, 
Where  no  yew  casts  a  shadow 

The  bright  scene  to  mar. 
There  the  rainbows  ne'er  fade, 

And  the  dews  are  ne'er  dry, 
And  a  circle  of  moons 

Ever  shines  in  the  sky. 
There  the  songs  of  the  blest, 

And  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 
Are  unceasingly  heard 

Through  the  infinite  years. 
There  the  soft  airs  float  down 

From  the  amaranth  bowers, 
All  faint  with  the  perfume 

Of  Eden's  own  flowers. 
There  truth,  love,  and  beauty 

Immortal  will  be  : — 
O,  say,  wilt  thou  dwell 

In  that  sweet  star  with  me  ? 


THE  BOUQUET'S  COMPLIMENTS. 

TO  thee,  the  pure,  the  bright,  the  good. 
We  come,  a  gentle  sisterhood, 
From  many  a  sweet  and  lovely  spot, 
From  wood  and  dell  and  fairy  grot, 
With  dews  from  nature's  diamond  mine, 
To  worship  at  thy  beauty's  shrine, 
And  hail  thee  in  this  simple  lay, 
Our  own  enchanting  Queen  of  May. 

In  our  far  homes  by  wood  and  dell 

• 
We  often  heard  thy  lovers  tell 

With  gesture  wild  and  frenzied  start, 
How  very  beautiful  thou  art. 
They  called  thee  sweeter,  brighter  for, 
Than  sweetest  flower  or  brightest  star  ; 
They  said  that  language  could  not  speak 
The  beauty  of  thy  lip  and  cheek  ; 
They  said  the  music  of  thy  words 
Was  richer  than  the  voice  of  birds  ; 
And  we  have  come  without  a  sigh 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  and  to  die. 


THE  BOUQUET'S  COMPLIMENTS.  G7 

And  it  is  true,  dear  Queen  of  May, 

All  that  we  heard  thy  lovers  say  : 

Our  red  rose,  when  with  clews  it  drips, 

Is  not  so  red  as  thy  red  lips  ; 

Our  violet's  bluer  than  the  sky, 

But  not  so  blue  as  thy  blue  eye ; 

Our  jasmine's  breath,  though  deemed  divine, 

Is  not  so  sweet,  fair  one,  as  thine  ; 

The  loveliest  stars  we  used  to  see 

Are  dim  and  cold  compared  to  thee  ; 

And  there  's  no  bird,  in  field  or  grove, 

Can   match  thy  gentle  tones  of  love. 

And  now,  dear  Queen,  accept,  we  pray, 

The  homage  we  have  come  to  pay  ; 

Our  life,  we  know,  is  very  brief, 

But  yet  in  joy,  and  not  in  grief, 

Our  lids  will  close  if  we  may  glow 

Awhile  upon  thy  bosom's  snow, 

Or  die,    O    loveliest  of  girls, 

In  the  warm  sunshine  of  thy  curls. 


THE  DEAD  MARINER. 

LEEP  on,  sleep  on  !  above  thy  corse 

The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep  ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 
O'er  thee,  mild  eve  her  beauty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings  ; 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep,  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on  !  no  willow  o'er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air, 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare  ; 
But  there  the  sea-flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung  ; 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair, 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  !  the  glittering  depths 

Of  ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves  ; 


THE  DEAD  MARINER.  GO 

The  purple  gems  forever  burn 
In  fadeless  beauty  round  thy  urn  ; 
And,  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  !  the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep  ; 
But,  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  'twill  murmur  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee. 

Sleep  on  !  thy  corse  is  far  away, 

But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed, 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet ; 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride, 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  oft  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Eden  of  departed  years. 


THE  STARS. 

rning  stars  !  what  are  they  ?  I  have  dreamed 
JL     That  they  were  blossoms  from  the  tree  of  life, 
Or  glory  flung  back  from  the  outspread  wings 
Of  God's  Archangels  ;   or  that  yon  blue  skies, 
With  all  their  gorgeous  blazonry  of  gems, 
Were  a  bright  banner  waving  o'er  the  earth 
From  the  far  wall  of  Heaven  !     And  I  have  sat 
And  drank  their  gushing  glory,  till  I  felt 
Their  flash  electric  trembling  with  the  deep 
And  strong  vibration  down  the  living  wire 
Of  chainless  passion  ;   and  my  every  pulse 
Was  beating  high,  as  if  a  spring  were  there 
To  buoy  me  up,  where  I  might  ever  roam 
'Mid  the  unfathomed  vastncss  of  the  sky, 
And  dwell  with  those  bright  stars,  and  see  their  light 
Poured  down  upon  the  sleeping  earth  like  dew 
From  the  bright  urns  of  Naiads  ! 

Beautiful  stars  ! 

What  are  ye?     There  is  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
A  fount  that  heaves  beneath  you,  like  the  deep 
Beneath  the  glories  of  the  midnight  moon  ! 
And  list !— your  Eden-tones  are  floating  now 


THE  STARS.  71 

Around  me  like  an  element :  so  slow, 

So  mildly  beautiful,  I  almost  deem 

That  ye  are  there,  the  living  harps  of  Gocl, 

O'er  which  the  incense-winds  of  Eden  stray, 

And  wake  such  tones  of  mystic  minstrelsy 

As  well  might  wander  down  to  this  dim  world  « 

To  fashion  dreams  of  Heaven  !     Peal  on,  peal  on, 

Nature's  high  anthem  !  for  my  life  has  caught 

A  portion  of  your  purity  and  power, 

And  seems  but  as  a  sweet  and  glorious  tone 

Of  wild  star-music  ! 

Blessed,  blessed  things  ! 

Ye  are  in  heaven,  and  I  on  earth.    My  soul, 
Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush,  can  wander  off 
To  your  immortal  realms,  but  it  must  fall, 
Like  your  own  ancient  Pleiad,  from  its  height, 
To  dim  its  new-caught  glories  in  the  dust! 
This  earth  is  very  beautiful.      I  love 
Its  wilderness  of  flowers,  its  bright  clouds, 
The  majesty  of  mountains,  and  the  dread 
Magnificence  of  ocean — for  they  come 
Like  visions  on  my  heart ;  but  when  I  look 
On  your  unfading  loveliness,  I  feel 
Like  a  lost  infant  gazing  on  its  home, 
And  weep  to  die,  and  come  where  ye  repose 
Upon  your  boundless  heaven,  like  parted  souls 
On  an  eternity  of  blessedness. 


TIS  sad,  3 
erentli 


OUR  CHILDHOOD. 

yet  sweet,  to  listen  to  the   south  wind's 
gentle  swell, 
And  think  we  hear  the  music  our  childhood  knew  so 

well ; 
To  gaze  out  on  the  even,  and  the  boundless  fields  of 

air, 

And  feel  again  our  boyhood's  wish  to  roam  like  angels 
there. 

There  are  many  dreams  of  gladness  that  cling  around 
the  Past, 

And  from  the  tomb  of  feeling  old  thoughts  come  throng 
ing  fast ; 

The  forms  we  loved  so  dearly  in  the  happy  days  now 
gone, 

The  beautiful  and  lovely,  so  fair  to  look  upon : — 

Those  bright  and  gentle  maidens,  who  seemed  so  formed 

for  bliss, 
Too    glorious  and  too    heavenly   for  such    a  world    as 

this — 


OUR  CHILDHOOD.  7o 

Whose  dark,  soft  eyes  seemed  swimming  in  a  sea  of 

liquid  light, 

And  whose  locks  of  gold  were  streaming  o'er  brows  so 
sunny  bright ; 

Whose  smiles  were  like  the  sunshine  in  the  spring-time 
of  the  year — 

Like  the  changeful  gleams  of  April,  they  followed  every 
tear : 

They  have  passed — like  hopes — away,  and  their  love 
liness  has  fled  ; 

Oh  !  many  a  heart  is  mourning  that  they  are  with  the 
dead. 

Like  the  brightest  buds  of  summer,  they  have  fallen 
with  the  stem  ; 

Yet,  oh,  it  is  a  lovely  death,  to  fade  from  earth  like 
them  ! 


And  yet  the  thought  is  saddening  to  muse  on  such  as 

they, 
And    feel    that    all    the     beautiful    are     passing     fast 

away  ; 
That  the  fair  ones  whom  we  love  grow  to  each  loving 

breast 
Like    the   tendril    of   the    clinging   vine,    then    perish 

where  they  rest. 


74  OUR  CHILDHOOD. 

And  we  can  but  think  of  these,  in  the  soft  and  gentle 

Spring, 
When  the  trees  are  waving  o'er  us,  and  the  flowers  are 

blossoming ; 
And  we  know  that  Winter  's  coming  with  his  cold  and 

stormy  sky, 
And  the  glorious  beauty  round  us  is  budding   but   to 

die! 


TO  A  YOUNG  BEAUTY. 

THAT  dark,  bright  eye— that  dark,  bright  eye- 
Where  thoughts  are  pictured  pure  and  high, 
And  love's  young  visions  softly  gleam 
Like  rose-tints  on  the  twilight  stream  : 
That  dark,  bright  eye— oh,  I  have  felt 

The  witchery  of  its  magic  rare 
Come  o'er  me  till  I  could  have  knelt 
To  worship  the  bright  Spirit  there. 

That  raven  hair — that  raven  hair — 
That  wooes  the  soft  and  amorous  air, 
And  o'er  thy  brow's. pure  whiteness  flows 
Like  clouds  o'er  morning's  drifted  snows  : 
That  raven  hair — I  love  to  mark 

Its  clusters  o'er  thy  temples  rove, 
While  sweetly  from  its  ringlets  dark 

Is  breathing  all  the  soul  of  love. 

That  lovely  cheek — that  lovely  cheek — 
Where  joy  and  beauty  seem  to  speak 
From  every  lineament,  and  twine 
Their  flower- wreaths  o'er  its  virgin  shrine: 


76  TO  A    YOUNG  BEAUTT. 

That  lovely  cheek — how  sweet  to  muse 
On  the  dear  tints  that  o'er  it  rise, 

And,  gazing  on  those  breathing  hues, 
To  dream  of  love  and  Paradise. 

That  floating  form — that  floating  form — 
With  Heaven's  own  glowing  spirit  warm, 
So  beautiful,  the  vision  fair 
Seems  a  bright  creature  of  the  air : 
That  floating  form — oh,  I  have  dreamed 

Such  forms  were  in  the  bowers  above — 
Too  bright  for  earth  the  vision  seemed, 

A  thing  of  ecstasy  and  love. 


THE  CHARM  OF  THE  POET. 

ALL  Nature  seems  more  beautiful, 
As  pictured  in  thy  song — her  bowers 
With  gentler  sounds  the  spirit  lull, 

And  winds  go  lightlier  o'er  the  flowers. 

The  spirit  of  the  evening  fills 

The  shutting  rose  with  softer  dew  ; 

A  brighter  dream  is  on  the  hills, 
And  on  the  waves  a  tenderer  blue. 

With  lovelier  hue  at  twilight  hour 
The  banner  of  the  sunset  gleams, 

And  gentle  birds  and  gentle  flowers 
Sink  softlier  to  their  blessed  dreams. 

The  rainbow  o'er  the  evening  sky 
With  brighter,  holier  arch  is  thrown, 

And  the  lone  sea-shell's  mournful  sigh 
Is  swelling  in  a  wilder  tone. 


78  THE  CHARM  OF  THE  POET. 

The  music-voice  of  childhood  flows 

More  ringingly  upon  the  air, 
And  with  a  heavenlier  fervor  glows 

The  eloquence  of  praise  and  prayer. 

The  lost  ones  that  we  loved  so  well 
Come  back  to  our  deserted  bowers  ; 

Upon  the  breeze  their  voices  swell, 

And  their  dear  hands  are  clasped  in  ours. 

Thy  genius  wanders  wild  and  free 
'Mid  all  things  beautiful  and  blest, 

For  thy  young  heart  is  like  the  sea 

That  wears  Heaven's  picture  on  its  breast. 


A  DIRGE. 

?r  I  l  WAS  her  fourth  birth-day,  and  the  morning  rose 

JL      Bright  as  a  dream  of  Eden,  but  she  lay 
Within  her  snow-white  shroud  in  cold  repose, 

A  form  of  beautiful,  unbreathing  clay  ; 
Sweet  spring-flowers  lay  beside  her  in  their  bloom, 

And  one  unopened  bud  was  in  her  hand, 
An  emblem  of  her  doom — no,  not  her  doom, 
For  she  will  blossom  in  the  better  land. 

She  came,  and  passed  to  her  bright  home  above 

Ere  yet  one  cloud  had  darkened  life's  young  springs, 
Ere  hope  had  faded  in  her  heart,  or  love 

Within  her  soul  had  shut  its  wounded  wings  ; 
She  was  all  truth,  and  love,  and  loveliness, 

And  it  is  well  such  pure,  sweet  ones  should  die, — 
Upon  the  earth  there  is  a  blossom  less, 

But  oh,  there  is  an  added  star  on  high. 

Though  we  be  doomed  a  while  on  earth  to  stay, 
'T  is  sin  to  mourn  when  sinless  beings  die  ; 


80  A  DIRGE. 

To  grieve  when  earth's  frail  beauty  fades  away 
In  the  immortal  beauty  of  the  sky; 

To  murmur  when  the  young  and  lovely  wake 
From  this  dark  sleep  and  all  its  tearful  dreams, 

And  go,  'mid  songs  of  cherub  bands  to  take 
Their  angel  plumage  by  the  Eden  streams. 


SENT  WITH  A  ROSE. 

OH,  take  my  rose, — "t  is  a  lovely  flower, 
And  'twas  plucked  in  the  morning's  earliest  hour, 
When  a  dew-drop  lay  at  its  heart  of  pearl 
Like  a  dream  in  the  breast  of  a  sleeping  girl. 

Oh,  press  my  rose,  at  thy  own  sweet  home, 
Between  the  leaves  of  thy  favorite  tome  ; 
Then  keep  it  ever,  for  it  will  be 
A  token  of  love  from  my  heart  to  thee. 

There  's  a  rose,  dear  lady,  upon  thy  cheek, 
Oh,  fairer  and  brighter  than  words  can  speak ; 
But  treasure  this  precept  within  thy  breast, 
By  none,  save  me,  must  that  rose  be  pressed. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

HOW  calmly  sinks  the  parting-  sun  ! 
Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And  beautiful  as  dreams  of  Heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks,  the  forest  trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine  ; 

And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow, 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mvsterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  Fancy's  eye 


SABBA  TH  E  VENING.  83 

Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And  from  their  sacrifice  of  love 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  high, 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 
Are  living  with  religion  ; — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there  ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild  ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefiled  ! 


84  SABBA  TH  E  YEN  IN  G. 

And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven- 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  Heaven. 


TO  A  LADY. 

I  THINK  of  thee  when  Morning  springs 
From  sleep  with  plumage  bathed  in  dew, 
And,  like  a  young  bird,  lifts  her  wings 
Of  gladness  on  the  welkin  blue. 

And  when,  at  noon,  the  breath  of  love 
O'er  flower  and  stream  is  wandering  free, 

And  sent  in  music  from  the  grove, 
I  think  of  thee,  I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee,  when,  soft  and  wide, 
The  Evening  spreads  her  robes  of  light, 

And,  like  a  young  .and  timid  bride, 
Sits  blushing  in  the  arms  of  Night. 

And  when  the  moon's  sweet  crescent  springs 
In  light  o'er  heaven's  deep,  waveless  sea, 

And  stars  are  forth,  like  blessed  things, 
I  think  of  thee,  I  think  of  thee. 


86 


TO  A  LADY. 


I  think  of  thee  : — that  eye  of  flame, 
Those  tresses,  falling  bright  and  free, 

That  brow,  where  "  Beauty  writes  her  name"- 
I  think  of  thee,  I  think  of  thee. 


ON  REVISITING  BROWN  UNIVERSITY. 

IT  is  the  noon  of  night.      On  this  calm  spot, 
Where  passed  my  boyhood's  years,  I  sit  me  down 
To  wander  through  the  dim  world  of  the  Past. 

The  Past !   the  silent  Past !  pale  Memory  kneels 

Beside  her  shadowy  urn,  and  with  a  deep 

And  voiceless  sorrow  weeps  above  the  grave 

Of  beautiful  affections.     Her  lone  harp 

Lies  broken  at  her  feet,  and,  as  the  wind 

Goes  o'er  its  moldering  chords,  a  dirge-like   sound 

Rises  upon  the  air,  and  all  again 

Is  an  unbreathing  silence. 

Oh,  the  Past ! 

Its  spirit  as  a  mournful  presence  lives 
In  every  ray  that  gilds  those  ancient  spires, 
And  like  a  low  and  melancholy  wind 
Comes  o'er  yon  distant  wood,  and  faintly  breathes 
Upon  my  fevered  spirit.     Here  I  roved 
Ere  I  had  fancied  aught  of  life  beyond 
The  poet's  twilight  imaging.     Those  years 
Come  o'er  me  like  the  breath  of  fading  flowers, 
And  tones  I  loved  fall  on  mv  heart  as  dew 


88       ON  REVISITING  BROWN  UNIVERSITT. 

Upon  the  withered  rose-leaf.     They  were  years 

When  the  rich  sunlight  blossomed  in  the  air, 

And  fancy,  like  a  blessed  rainbow,  spanned 

The  waves  of  Time,  and  joyous  thoughts  went  off 

Upon  its  beautiful  unpillared  arch 

To  revel  there  in  cloud,  and  sun,  and  sky. 

Within  yon  silent  domes,  how  many  hearts 

Are  beating  high  with  glorious  dreams.    'T  is  well ; 

The  rosy  sunlight  of  the  morn  should  not 

Be  darkened  by  the  portents  of  the  storm 

That  may  not  burst  till  eve.     Those  youthful  ones, 

Whose  thoughts  are  woven  of  the  hues  of  heaven, 

May  see  their  visions  fading  tint  by  tint, 

Till  naught  is  left  upon  the  darkened  air 

Save  the  gray   winter  cloud  ;  the  brilliant  star 

That  glitters  now  upon  their  happy  lives 

May  redden  to  a  scorching  flame  and  burn 

Their  every  hope  to  dust ;  yet  why  should  thoughts 

Of  coming  sorrows  cloud  their  hearts'  bright  depths 

With  an  untimely  shade?     Dream  on — dream  on, 

Ye  thoughtless  ones — dream  on  while  yet  ye  may  ! 

When  life  is  but  a  shadow,  tear,  and  sigh, 

Ye  will  turn  back  to  linger  round  these  hours 

Like  stricken  pilgrims,  and  their  music  sweet 

Will  be  a  dear  though  melancholy  tone 

In  Memory's  ear,  sounding  forever  more. 


CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR  1832. 

T"     IKE  a  swift  wave,  the  dying  year 

J — j  Down  Time's  dark  flood  has  passed, 

And  its  last  sigh  is  lingering  now 

Upon  the  sinking  blast ; 
Oh,  while  it  sparkled  in  the  sun, 
It  mirrored  glories  one  by  one, 

Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
And  these,  lone  year,  are  fled,  like  thee, 
To  the  dim  past's  unfathom'd  sea 

How  many  a  change  is  ours  ! — the  young, 
Like  Spring's  fresh  flowers,  have  died, 
And  manhood,  like  the  Summer's  flash, 

Has  faded  in  his  pride  ; 
And  aged  ones,  like  withered  leaves, 
Through  which  the  Autumn  tempest  grieves, 

Have  fallen,  side  by  side  ; 
The  wild  wind  wails  o'er  earth  to-day 
The  dirge  of  millions  passed  away. 

These  stanzas  were  written  (but  not  published)  on  the  3ist  of 
December,  1832.  In  that  year  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Charles 
Carroll  of  Carrollton  died, -and  South  Carolina  Nullification 
threatened  the  dissolution  of  the  American  Union. 


i)0  CLOSE  OF  THE   TEAR  1832. 

Even  he,  the  monarch  of  the  heart, 

The  gifted  and  the  proud, 
The  wizard  of  old  Scotland's  hills, 

In  common  dust  is  bowed — 
He,  who  on  Mind's  high  steep  could  stand, 
And  marshal  with  his  sceptered  hand 

The  whirlwind  and  the  cloud, 
And  write  a  name,  too  bright  to  die, 
In  lightning-traces  on  the  sky. 

In  our  own  land  has  fallen  one, 
Whose  fame  at  Time  will  mock — 

Who  set  his  name  to  Freedom's  scroll, 
And  dared  the  battle-shock  ; 

The  last  of  that  proud  band  lies  low 

That  bared  their  bosoms  to  the  foe, 
A  living  rampart  rock, 

And  stood,  the  prophets  of  the  free, 

At  Liberty's  Thermopylae. 

Gone  is  our  Spartan  phalanx  now— 

In  vain  were  tear  and  prayer — 
But  list !  their  awful  voices  still 

Breathe,  burn  upon  the  air  ! 
They  ring  upon  their  country's  ear 
A  tone  of  warning  and  of  fear, 

And  bid  her  sons  beware, 
Nor  madly  quench  the  glorious  star, 
That  nations  worship  from  afar. 


CLOSE  OF  THE   TEAR  1832.  91 

Time  rushes  still :  another  year, 

Like  that  whose  tale  is  told, 
Is  hurrying  wildly  past — and  what 

Will  its  dark  months  unfold  ! 
Like  bale-fires  on  a  stormy  sea, 
Visions  of  blood  perchance  will  be 

Upon  its  chart  unrolled  ; 
And  strife  may  whet  the  sword  of  doom 
E'en  on  the  stone  of  Carroll's  tomb. 

A  signal  in  the  midnight  heavens  ! 

Lo,  where  yon  meteor-gleam 
Is  flashing  from  the  far-off  South 

To  old  Potomac's  stream  ! 
Its  lurid  and  portentous  smile 
Is  like  that  star  o'er  Patmos'  isle, 

Seen  in  the  Prophet's  dream, 
That  sank  on  hill,  and  vale,  and  flood, 
And  turned  earth's  waters  into  blood. 

My  country,  oh  my  country,  pause 

Ere  guilt  has  stained  thy  hand, 
Pause  'mid  thy  perils,  and  invoke 

The  God  of  Freedom's  land  ; 
Then  if  the  war-cloud  vail  thy  sun 
The  spirit  of  thy  Washington 

Upon  that  cloud  will  stand, 
To  scatter  its  red  folds  in  air 
And  bend  the  bow  of  glory  there. 


ANNIVERSARY  OF  A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING. 

WE  'VE  shared  each  other's  smiles  and  tears 
Through  years  of  wedded  life  ; 
And  Love  has  hlessed  those  fleeting  years, 
My  own,  my  cherished  wife. 

And  if,  at  times,  the  storm's  dark  shroud 

Has  rested  in  the  air, 
Love's  beaming  sun  has  kissed  the  cloud, 

And  left  the  rainbow  there. 

In  all  our  hopes,  in  all  our  dreams, 

Love  is  forever  nigh, — 
A  blossom  in  our  path  it  seems, 

A  sunbeam  in  our  sky. 

"  One  morning  while  suffering  in  this  way  [from  paralysis  of 
his  writing  fingers],  he  composed  a  beautiful  song  for  his  friend, 
Dr.  T.  S.  Bell.  Mr.  Prentice's  amanuensis  was  not  in,  and  he 
stepped  over  to  the  Doctor's  office,  and  asked  him  to  write  some 
thing  for  him,  saying  :  "  It  is  for  you  and  your  wife."  Mr.  Pren 
tice  then  dictated  the  following  beautiful  lines,  which  were 
afterward  set  to  music  by  a  distinguished  artist  of  Poland." — 
G.  W.  Griffin. 


ANNIVERSART  OF  A    WEDDING. 

For  all  our  joys  of  brightest  hue 
Grow  brighter  in  Love's  smile, 

And  there 's  no  grief  our  hearts  e'er  knew 
That  Love  could  not  beguile. 


93 


MEMORIES. 

ONCE  more,  once  more,  my  Mary  dear, 
I  sit  by  that  lone  stream, 
Where  first  within  thy  timid  ear 

I  breathed  love's  burning  dream. 
The  birds  we  loved  still  tell  their  tale 

Of  music,  on  each  spray, 
And  still  the  wild-rose  decks  the  vale  — 
But  thou  art  far  away. 

In  vain  thy  vanished  form  I  seek, 

By  wood  and  stream  and  dell, 
And  tears  of  anguish  bathe  my  cheek 

Where  tears  of  rapture  fell ; 
And  yet  beneath  those  wild-wood  bowers 

Dear  thoughts  my  soul  employ, 
For  in  the  memories  of  past  hours 

There  is  a  mournful  joy. 

Upon  the  air  thy  gentle  words 

Around  me  seem  to  thrill, 
Like  sounds  upon  the  wind  harp's  chords 

When  all  the  winds  are  still, 


MEMORIES.  95 


Or  like  the  low  and  soul-like  swell 

Of  that  wild  spirit-tone, 
Which  haunts  the  hollow  of  the  bell 

When  its  sad  chime  is  done. 

I  seem  to  hear  thee  speak  my  name 

In  sweet,  low  murmurs  now  ; 
I  seem  to  feel  thy  breath  of  flame 

Upon  my  cheek  and  brow ; 
On  my  cold  lips  I  feel  thy  kiss, 

Thy  heart  to  mine  is  laid — 
Alas,  that  such  a  dream  of  bliss 

Like  other  dreams  must  fade  ! 


MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

ALL  day,  as  day  is  reckoned  on  the  earth, 
I've  wandered  in  these  dim  and  awful  aisles, 
Shut  from  the  blue  and  breezy  dome  of  heaven, 
While  thoughts,  wild,  drear,  and  shadowy,  have  swept 
Across  my  awe-struck  soul,  like  specters  o'er 
The  wizard's  magic  glass,  or  thunder-clouds 
O'er  the  blue  waters  of  the  deep.     And  now 
I'll  sit  me  down  upon  yon  broken  rock 
To  muse  upon  the  strange  and  solemn  things 
Of  this  mysterious  realm. 

All  day  my  steps 

Have  been  amid  the  beautiful,  the  wild, 
The  gloomy,  the  terrific.     Crystal  founts, 
Almost  invisible  in  their  serene 
And  pure  transparency  ;  high,  pillared  domes, 
With  stars  and  flowers  all  fretted  like  the  halls 
Of  Oriental  monarchs  ;  rivers  dark 
And  drear  and  voiceless  as  Oblivion's  stream, 
That  flows  through  Death's  dim  vale  of  silence  ;  gulfs 
All  fathomless,  down  which  the  loosened  rock 
Plunges  until  its  far-off  echoes  come 


MA  MMO  TH  CA  VE.  97 

Fainter  and  fainter  like  the  dying  roll 

Of  thunders  in  the  distance  ;   Stygian  pools 

Whose  agitated  waves  give  back  a  sound 

Hollow  and  dismal,  like  the  sullen  roar 

In  the  volcano's  depths  : — these,  these  have  left 

Their  spell  upon  me,  and  their  memories 

Have  passed  into  my  spirit,  and  are  now 

Blent  with  my  being  till  they  seem  a  part 

Of  my  own  immortality. 

God's  hand, 

At  the  creation,  hollowed  out  this  vast 
Domain  of  darkness,  where  no  herb  nor  flower 
E'er  sprang  amid  the  sands,  nor  dews,  nor  rains, 
Nor  blessed  sunbeams  fell  with  freshening  power, 
Nor  gentle  breeze  its  Eden  message  told 
Amid  the  dreadful  gloom.     Six  thousand  years 
Swept  o'er  the  earth  ere  human  footprints  marked 
This  subterranean  desert.     Centuries 
Like  shadows  came  and  past,  and  not  a  sound 
Was  in  this  realm,  save  when  at  intervals, 
In  the  long  lapse  of  ages,  some  huge  mass 
Of  overhanging  rock  fell  thundering  down, 
Its  echoes  sounding  through  these  corridors 
A  moment,  and  then  dying  in  a  hush 
Of  silence,  such  as  brooded  o'er  the  earth 
When  earth  was  chaos.     The  great  mastodon, 
The  dreaded  monster  of  the  elder  world, 


93  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

Passed  o'er  this  mighty  cavern,  and  his  tread 
Bent  the  old  forest  oaks  like  fragile  reeds 
And  made  earth  tremble  ;   armies  in  their  pride 
Perchance  have  met  above  it  in  the  shock 
Of  war,  with  shout  and  groan,  and  clarion  blast, 
And  the  hoarse  echoes  of  the  thunder  gun  ; 
The  storm,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  hurricane 
Have  roared  above  it,  and  the  bursting  cloud 
Sent  down  its  red  and  crashing  thunderbolt ; 
Earthquakes  have  trampled  o'er  it  in  their  wrath, 
Rocking  earth's  surface  as  the  storm-wind  rocks 
The  old  Atlantic  ; — yet  no  sound  of  these 
E'er  came  down  to  the  everlasting  depths 
Of  these  dark  solitudes. 

How  oft  we  gaze 

With  awe  or  admiration  on  the  new 
And  unfamiliar,  but  pass  coldly  by 
The  lovelier  and  the  mightier  !    Wonderful 
Is  this  lone  world  of  darkness  and  of  gloom, 
But  far  more  wonderful  yon  outer  world 
Lit  by  the  glorious  sun.     These  arches  swell 
Sublime  in  lone  and  dim  magnificence, 
But  how  sublimer  God's  blue  canopy, 
Beleaguered  with  his  burning  cherubim 
Keeping  their  watch  eternal  !     Beautiful 
Arc  all  the  thousand  snow-white  gems  that  lie 
In  these  mysterious  chambers,  gleaming  out 


MAMMOTH  CA  VE.  09 

Amid  the  melancholy  gloom,  and  wild 

These  rocky  hills  and  cliffs  and  gulfs,  but  far 

More  beautiful  and  wild  the  things  that  greet 

The  wanderer  in  our  world  of  light :   the  stars 

Floating  on  high  like  islands  of  the  blest ; 

The  autumn  sunsets  glowing  like  the  gate 

Of  far-off  Paradise  ;  the  gorgeous  clouds 

On  which  the  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky 

Meet  and  commingle  ;  earth's  unnumbered  flowers 

All  turning  up  their  gentle  eyes  to  heaven  ; 

The  birds,  with  bright  wings  glancing  in  the  sun, 

Filling  the  air  with  rainbow  miniatures  ; 

The  green  old  forests  surging  in  the  gale  ; 

The  everlasting  mountains,  on  whose  peaks 

The  setting  sun  burns  like  an  altar-flame  ; 

And  ocean,  like  a  pure  heart  rendering  back 

Heaven's  perfect  image,  or  in  his  wild  wrath 

Heaving  and  tossing  like  the  stormy  breast 

Of  a  chained  giant  in  his  agony. 


TO  SUE. 

^r  I  i  IS  very  sweet  to  sit  and  gaze,  dear  girl, 

JL      On  thy  fair  face, 
As  glowing  as  a  crimson-shaded  pearl 

Or  lighted  vase. 
Young  beauty  brightens,  like  an  Eden-dream, 

On  thy  pure  cheek, 

And  joy  and  love  from  every  feature  seem 
To  breathe  and  speak. 

I  love  to  kneel  in  worship  to  the  Sprite 

In  thy  dark  eyes, 
Dark  as  the  fabled  Stygian  stream,  and  bright 

As  Paradise. 
Not  oft  the  radiance  of  such  eyes  is  given 

To  light  our  way  ; 
And  oh,  to  me  there 's  not  a  star  in  heaven 

So  bright  as  they. 

I  've  known  thee  but  a  few  brief  clays,  and  yet 

Thou  wilt  remain 
An  image  of  undying  beauty  set 

On  heart  and  brain. 


TO  SUE.  ror 

Each  thought,  each  dream  of  thee,  fair  girl,  will  seem 

Mid  toil  and  strife, 
A  pure  white  lily  swaying  on  the  stream 

Of  this  dark  life. 

The  months  will  pass,  the  flowers  will  soon  be  bright 

On  plain  and  hill, 
And  the  young  birds  with  voices  of  delight 

The  woodlands  fill ; 
Oh,  in  that  fairy  season  thou  shalt  be — 

Mid  budding  bovvers — 
My  heart's  young  May-queen,  and  I  '11  twine  for  thee 

The  heart's  wild  flowers. 

May  fortune's  richest  gifts  be  hourly  strewn 

Around  thy  feet ; 
May  every  sound  that  greets  thee  be  a  tone 

Of  music  sweet. 
May  every  blessing  rest  upon  thy  heart 

Like  morning  dew, 
And  no  sad  tear  e'er  from  thy  eyelids  start, 

My  gentle  Sue. 


ON  A  WARM  DAY  NEAR  THE  CLOSE  OF 
WINTER. 

HOW  soft  this  southern  gale  !    Its  freshness  falls 
Upon  my  forehead  like  the  light,  warm  touch 
Of  the  dew-lips  of  Spring-time.     It  has  been 
In  the  far  clime  of  blossoms,  and  it  bears 
A  message  of  affection  to  our  woods, 
And  vales,  and  streams.    Spring,  with  her  rose-air  breath, 
Is  coming  now  upon  her  rainbow  wing, 
To  waken  the  green  earth  to  life  and  joy, 
And  the  free  air  to  music.     She  will  weave 
Her  violet  throne  upon  a  thin,  white  cloud, 
Soft  floating  in  the  middle-air,  and  call 
Upon  her  thousand  votaries  to  hail 
Her  coming  with  a  song  and  smile.     The  waves 
Will  shout  from  rock  and  mountain,  the  blue  lakes 
Will  tremble  like  the  plumage  of  a  dove 
In  the  new  gush  of  sun-light,  and  the  birds 
Will  breathe  their  loves  in  music,  and  float  off — 
A  shower  of  blossoms  in  the  atmosphere. 
The  young,  gay  leaves  will  weave  their  twilight  hues 
In  grove  and  forest ;  'mid  yon  budding  isles 


ON  A    WARM  DAT  IN   WINTER.  103 

The  sea  will  sleep  like  a  Circassian  bride 
Decked  with  her  richest  jewelry  ;  the  sky 
Will  take  a  bluer  tint,  and  seem  to  arch 
More  high  and  pure  and  beautiful  above, 
As  if  to  let  the  spirit  go  abroad 
In  ampler  journeyings  ;   and  a  deep  spell 
Of  life  and  bliss  will,  like  a  blessing,  rest 
Upon  the  waking  heart,  and  bid  it  float 
Like  a  young  flower  upon  the  buoyant  wave 
Of  beautiful  imaginings  of  Heaven. 


A  WISH. 

IN  Southern  seas,  there  is  an  isle, 
Where  earth  and  sky  forever  smile  ; 
Where  storms  cast  not  their  somber  hue 
Upon  the  welkin's  holy  blue  ; 
Where  clouds  of  blessed  incense  rise 
From  myriad  flowers  of  myriad  dyes, 
And  strange,  bright  birds  glance  through  the  bowers, 
Like  winged  stars  or  winged  flowers. 

Oh,  dear  one,  would  it  were  our  lot 

To  dwell  upon  that  lovely  spot ; 

To  stray  through  woods  with  blossoms  starred, 

Bright  as  the  dreams  of  seer  or  bard  ; 

To  hear  each  other's  whispered  words 

'Mid  the  wild  notes  of  tropic  birds. 

And  deem  our  lives,  in  those  bright  bovvers, 

One  glorious  dream  of  love  and  flowers. 


TO  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  AN  OLD 
SWEETHEART. 

I  LOVE  thee,  Juliet,  for  thy  mother's  sake, 
And  were  I  young  should  love  thee  for  thine  own. 
Afresh  in  thee  her  early  charms  awake, 

And  all  her  witcheries  are  round  thee  thrown  ; 
Thine  are  her  girlhood's  features,  and  I  know 
Her  many  virtues  in  thy  bosom  glow. 

Thou  art  as  lovely,  though  not  yet  as  famed, 
As  that  bright  maid,  the  beautiful,  the  true, 

The  gentle  being  for  whom  thou  wast  named, 
The  Juliet  that  our  glorious  Shakspeare  drew. 

Thine  is  her  magic  loveliness — but,  oh, 

What  fiery  youth  shall  be  thy  Romeo? 

Whoe'er  he  be,  oh,  may  his  lot  and  thine 
Be  happier  than  the  lot  of  those  of  old  ; 

May  ye,  like  them,  bow  low  at'passion's  shrine, 
May  love  within  your  bosoms  ne'er  grow  cold  ; 

And  may  your  paths  be  ne'er,  like  theirs,  beset 

By  strifes  of  Montague  and  Capulet. 


106     DAUGHTER  OF  AN  OLD  S  WEE  THE  A  R  T 

Like  his  great  prototype,  thy  Romeo, 

Half- frenzied  by  his  passion's  raging  flame, 

And  kindling  with  a  poet's  fervid  glow, 

May  fancy  he  might  cut  thy  beauteous  frame 

Into  bright  stars  to  deck  the  midnight  sky — 

But,  gentle  Juliet,  may  he  never  try  ! 

I  paid  the  tribute  of  an  humble  lay 

To  thy  fair  mother  in  her  girlhood  bright, 

And  now  this  humbler  offering  I  pay 

To  thee,  oh,  sweet  young  spirit  of  delight. 

And  may  I  not,  tossed  on  life's  stormy  waters, 

Live  to  make  rhymes,  dear  Juliet,  to  thy  daughters  ? 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

IS  twilight,  and  I  stand  beside  her  grave  ! 
Her  grave  !    Alas,  that  so  much  loveliness 
Should  sink  into  the  damp,  cold  earth  !    Alas, 
That  beauty  such  as  hers  should  pass  away, 
And  that  its  image  should  exist  no  more 
Save  in  the  hearts  of  mourning  ones  ! 

Oh,  she 

Was  beautiful  as  some  bright,  winged  dream 
That  wanders  down  from  Eden's  blessed  bowers, 
And  folds  its  starry  plumes  within  the  soul 
Of  musing  bard  or  sculptor.     Forms  like  hers 
Oft  pass  at  eve  before  the  half-closed-eye — 
They  glide  like  shadows  o'er  our  paths,  or  bend 
From  the  soft  edges  of  a  moonlight  cloud, 
And  beckon  to  the  sky,  but  rarely  come 
Like  her  to  beautify  our  homes  and  hearths 
With  their  abiding  smiles. 

I  see  her  now, 
Her  blue  eye  floating  in  its  own  clear  light, 


108  THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

Her  young  cheek,  bright  as  an  illumined  gem. 

Her  red  lips,  parted  in  their  mirth,  her  smile 

Beaming  like  sunshine  from  each  lineament, 

Her  light  step  bounding  o'er  the  summer  flowers 

In  very  joyousness,  as  if  she  were 

A  spirit  of  the  morning  or  a  wild 

Glad  creature  of  the  air — and  can  it  be 

That  all  that  bright  exuberance  of  life, 

And  love,  and  happiness,  is  sleeping  now 

In  deep  and  dark  decay?    Oh,  can  it  be 

That  Spring,  writh  her  soft  skies,  will  come  again, 

And  by  her  warm  breath  woo  her  violets 

And  roses  from  the  earth,  and  send  her  streams 

Leaping  and  singing  to  the  sea,  and  fill 

The  soft  air  with  her  thousand  melodies 

Of  bird  and  breeze,  and  grove  and  waterfall, 

And  our  loved  lost  one  be  not  here  to  greet 

With  us  the  glories  of  the  vernal  time, 

And  blend  her  ringing  cadences  with  all 

The  harmonies  of  Nature  in  her  joy? 


MY  HEART  IS  WITH  THEE. 

WHEN   the   breeze  with    a  whisper 
Steals  soft  through  the  grove, 
A  sweet  earnest  lisper 

Of  music  and  love  ; 
When  its  gentle  caressings 

Away  charm  each  sigh, 
And  the  still  dews,  like  blessings, 

Descend  from  the  sky  ; 
When  a  deep  spell  is  lying 

On  hill,  vale,  and  lea — 
My  warm  heart  is  flying, 

Sweet  spirit,  to  thee. 

When  stars  like  sky-blossoms 

Above  seem  to  blow, 
And  waves  like  young  bosoms 

Are  swelling  below  ; 
When  the  voice  of  the  river 

Floats,  mournfully  past, 


110  MY  HEART  IS    WITH  THEE. 

And  the  forest's  low  shiver 

Is  borne  on  the  blast ; 
When  wild  tones  are  swellino- 

^ 

From  earth,  air,  and  sea — 
My  warm  heart  is  dwelling, 
Sweet  spirit,  with  thee. 

When  the  night-clouds  are  riding, 

Like  ghosts,  on  the  gale, 
And  the  young  moon  is  gliding, 

Sweet,  lonely,  and  pale  ; 
When  the  ocean  is  sobbing 

In  ceaseless  unrest, 
And  its  great  heart  is  throbbing 

All  wild  in  its  breast ; 
When  the  strong  wind  is  wrestling 

With  billow  and  tree — • 
My  warm  heart  is  nestling, 

Sweet  spirit,  with  thee. 

When  in  slumber  thy  fancies 

In  loveliness  gleam, 
And  a  thousand  romances 

Are  bright  in  thy  dream  ; 
When  visions  of  brightness 

Like  young  angels  start 


MT  HEART  IS    WITH  THEE.  11] 

In  beautiful  lightness 

All  wild  from  thy  heart ; 
When  thy  calm  sleep  is  giving 

Thy  dream-wings  to  thee, 
Oh,  say  art  thou  living, 

Sweet  spirit,  with  me  ? 


MY  MOTHER. 

MY  mother,  'tis  a  long  and  weary  time 
Since  last  I  looked  upon  thy  sad,  sweet  face, 
And  listened  to  the  gentle  spirit-tones 
Of  thy  dear  voice  of  music.     I  was  then 
A  child,  a  bright-haired  child.     The  fearful  thought 
Which  slowly  fastened  on  my  throbbing  brain, 
That  thou  wast  passing  from  the  earth  away, 
Was  my  young  life's  first  sorrow.     Through  the  long 
And  solemn  watches  of  that  awful  night, 
Kind  friends,  who  dearly  loved  us,  gathered  round 
Thy  dying  couch,  and,  in  my  agony, 
I  shrieked  to  them  to  save  thee  ;  but  with  tears, 
And  in  the  tones  of  holy  sympathy, 
They  told  me  thou  woulclst  die. 

Ah,  then  I  bowed 

My  head  to  God,  whose  worship  thy  dear  lips 
Had  taught  me,  and  to  Him  with  bursting  heart 
I  prayed  that  He  would  spare  thee.     And,  as  there 
I  knelt,  a  holy  calm,  as  if  from  Heaven, 


MT  MOTHER.  113 

Came  stealing  o'er  my  spirit,  and  a  voice 

Floated  into  my  soul.     It  said  that  thou 

Must  leave  me,  that  thy  home  was  in  the  sky, 

But  that  thou  still  wouldst  love  and  guard  thy  child, 

And  hover  round  him  on  thy  angel-wings 

In  all  his  wanderings  here. 

My  mother,  then 

I  rose  in  more  than  childhood's  strength,  and  watched 
The  fading  of  thy  life.     Dear  friends  still  hung 
Around  thy  pillow,  but  I  saw  them  not. 
Wild  lamentations  and  deep  sobs  were  breathed 
From  hearts  of  anguish,  but  I  heard  them  not. 
A  man  of  God  poured  forth  his  soul  in  prayer 
For  thy  soul's  welfare,  but  I  heard  him  not. 
I  saw  but  thy  wan  cheek,  thy  parted  lips, 
Thy  half-closed  eyes,  so  meek  and  calm  beneath 
Their  blue-veined  lids  ;  thy  bright,  disheveled  locks, 
Thy  pallid  brow,  damp  with  the  dews  of  death, 
And  the  faint  heaving  of  thy  breast,  that  oft 
In  happy  hours  had  pillowed  my  young  head 
To  sweet  and  gentle  slumber  ;  and  I  heard 
But  the  faint  struggle  of  thy  failing  breath, 
Thy  stifling  sighs,  and  the  high,  holy  words 
That  seemed  to  fall  like  dew-drops  on  my  soul 
From  out  the  blessed  skies.     All  suddenly 
Thy  dark  eyes  opened,  and  a  moment  looked 
Upon  thy  child  with  one  fixed,  burning  gaze, 


114  MT  MOTHER. 

In  which  the  deep  and  hoarded  love  of  years 

Was  all  concentred  ;  a  convulsive  thrill 

Shot  through  the  fibres  of  thy  wasted  frame  ; 

And  Death  was  there— aye,  thou  wast  mine  and  Death's  ; 

And  then  my  tears  again  gushed  wildly  forth  ; 

But  light  from  Heaven  broke  through  them  with  a  soft 

Prismatic  glory,  as  I  gazed  above, 

And  saw  thee  mounting,  like  a  new-made  star, 

Far  up  thy  glowing  pathway  in  the  heavens. 

Long  years,  my  dear,  lost  mother,  have  gone  by 

Since  thy  death-hour.     My  childhood  and  my  youth 

Have  passed  since  then,  and  my  strong  manhood's  prime 

Has  faded  like  a  vision,  for  my  years 

Far,  far  outnumber  thine  on  earth.     I  've  seen 

Much,  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  ;   I  have  felt 

Life's  storms  and  sunshine,  but  I  ne'er  have  known 

Such  raptures  as  my  full  heart  shared  with  thee 

In  childhood's  fairy  years.     Now,  Time  no  more 

Scatters  fresh  roses  round  my  feet ; — his  hand 

Lets  fall  upon  my  path  but  pale,  torn  flowers, 

Dead  blossoms,  that  the  gentle  dews  of  eve, 

The  morning  sunlight  and  the  noontide  rains 

Can  ne'er  revive.     E'en  thy  dear  image  now, 

The  sunlight  of  my  childhood,  seems  to  fade 

From  Memory's  vision.     'T  is  as  some  pale  tint 

Upon  the  twilight  wave,  a  broken  glimpse 


M T  MO  THER.  115 

Of  something  beautiful  and  dearly  loved 

In  far-gone  years  ;   a  dim  and  tender  dream, 

That,  like  a  faint  bow  on  a  darkened  sky, 

Lies  on  my  clouded  brain.     But,  oh  !  thy  voice — 

Its  tones  can  never  perish  in  my  soul ; 

It  visits  me  amid  the  strife  of  men 

In  the  dark  city's  solitude.     It  comes, 

Amid  the  silence  of  the  midnight  hour, 

Upon  my  listening  spirit  like  a  strain 

Of  fairy  music  o'er  the  sea.     And  oft, 

When  at  the  eventide,  amid  a  hush 

Deep  as  the  awful  stillness  of  a  dream, 

I  stray  all  lonely  through  the  leafless  woods, 

And  gaze  upon  the  moon  that  seems  to  mourn 

Her  lonely  lot  in  heaven,  or  on  the  trees, 

That  look  like  frowning  Titans  in  the  dim 

And  doubtful  light,  that  unforgotten  voice 

Swells  on  my  ear  like  the  low  mournful  tone 

Imprisoned  in  the  sea-shell,  or  the  sound, 

The  melancholy  sound,  of  dying  gales 

Panting  upon  the  far-off  tree-tops. 

Yes, 

My  mother  dear,  though  mountains,  hills  and  streams 
Divide  me  from  thy  grave,  where  I  so  oft 
In  childhood  laid  my  bosom  on  the  turf 
That  covered  thine  ;  though  the  drear  winter  storms 
Long,  long  have  cast  o'er  thee  their  spotless  shrouds, 


116  MY  MO  THER. 

And  Night  her  pall,  and  though  thine  image  sweet, 

The  one  dear  picture  cherished  through  my  life, 

Grows  dim  and  dimmer  in  my  brain,  thy  voice 

Is  ever  in  my  ear  and  in  my  heart, 

To  teach  me  love  and  gentleness  and  truth, 

And  warn  me  from  the  perils  that  surround 

The  paths  of  pilgrims  o'er  this  desert  earth. 


MARY. 

AGAIN  the  bright  and  joyous  Spring 
Is  passing  o'er  the  earth, 
And  at  her  call  the  woodlands  ring 

With  melody  and  mirth. 
Her  music  gushes  from  the  stream 

And  lingers  in  the  bough, 
And  Nature  seems  a  fairy  dream — 
But,  Mary,  where  art  thou  ? 

The  flowers  that  faded  from  our  sight 

In  Autumn's  chilling  gale, 
Again  like  earthly  stars  are  bright 

On  hill  and  plain  and  vale. 
The  violet  thy  dear  fingers  nursed 

Lifts  up  its  timid  brow, 
And  rose  and  lily  bloom  as  erst — 

But,  Mary,  where  art  thou  ? 

The  many  glories  of  the  Spring, 

Its  music  and  its  flowers, 
Back  on  my  saddened  spirit  bring 

The  thoughts  of  perished  hours. 


118  MART. 

The  joy  that  had  its  source  in  thee 
Seems  stealing  o'er  me  now : 

Alas  !  'tis  all  a  mockery- 
Sweet  Mary,  where  art  thou  ? 

Oh,  bright  ones  still,  though  thou  art  fled, 

Around  my  pathway  shine, 
With  eyes  as  blue  and  lips  as  red, 

And  cheeks  as  fair  as  thine  ; 
And  still  to  these,  'mid  mirth  and  song 

Proud  men  in  worship  bow  : 
Alas  !  I  can  not  join  the  throng — 

Dear  Mary,  where  art  thou  ? 

Oft-times  in  solitude  afar, 

Where  sin  and  strife  are  not, 
I  look  on  every  lovely  star 

To  seek  thy  dwelling-spot ; 
Oh,  many  round  the  midnight  throne 

Are  burning  brightly  now, 
But  I  would  gaze  on  thine  alone — 

Dear  Mary,  where  art  thou  ? 


TO  A  BUNCH   OF  ROSES. 

SWEET  flowers,  whilst  ye  impart 
The  fragrance  of  the  spring-time,  rich  and  rare, 
Go,  bear  that  errand  to  young  Julia's  heart, 
Which  only  roses  bear. 

Go,  tell  her,  lovely  flowers, 
That  in  my  soul  her  own  clear  image  gleams, 
A  light,  a  radiance  in  my  waking  hours, 

A  glorv  in  my  dreams. 

Say,  though  my  love  is  hers, 
To  her  alone  I  can  that  love  reveal  ; 
Among  her  many  burning  worshipers 

I  would,  but  may  not  kneel. 

Tell  her  it  were  your  bliss 

Upon  her  gentle  bosom  to  repose, 

And  she,  perhaps,  may  give  you  one  sweet  kiss- 
On,  that  I  were  a  rose  ! 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

"TV  TIGHT  steals  upon  the  world  ;  the  shades, 
_L  N     With  silent  flight,  are  sweeping  down, 
To  steep,  as  day's  last  glory  fades, 

In  tints  of  blue  the  landscape  brown  ; 
The  wave  breaks  not ;  deep  slumber  holds 
The  dewy  leaves  ;  the  night-wind  folds 
Her  melancholy  wing  ;  and  sleep 
Is  forth  upon  the  pulseless  deep. 

The  willows,  mid  the  silent  rocks, 
Are  brooding  o'er  the  waters  mild, 

Like  a  fond  mother's  pendent  locks 
Hung  sweetly  o'er  her  sleeping  child ; 

The  flowers  that  fringe  the  purple  stream 

Are  sinking  to  their  evening  dream  ; 

And  earth  appears  a  lovely  spot, 

Where  Sorrow's  voice  awakens  not. 

But  see  !  such  pure,  such  beautiful, 
And  burning  scenes  awake  to  birth 

In  yon  bright  depths,  they  render  dull 
The  loveliest  tints  that  mantle  earth ! 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE.  121 

The  heavens  are  rolling  blue  and  fair, 
And  the  soft  night-gems  clustering  there 
Seem,  as  on  high  they  breathe  and  burn, 
Bright  blossoms  o'er  day's  shadowy  urn. 

At  this  still  hour,  when  starry  songs 

Are  floating  through  night's  glowing  noon, 

How  sweet  to  view  those  radiant  throngs 
Glitter  around  the  throne  of  June  ! 

To  see  them  in  their  watch  of  love 

Gaze  from  the  holy  heavens  above, 

And  in  their  robes  of  brightness  roam 

Like  angels  o'er  the  eternal  dome  ! 

Their  light  is  on  the  ocean  isles, 

'Tis  trembling  on  the  mountain  stream  ; 
And  the  far  hills,  beneath  their  smiles, 

Seem  creatures  of  a  blessed  dream  ! 
Upon  the  deep  their  glory  lies, 
As  if  untreasured  from  the  skies, 
And  comes  soft-flashing  from  its  waves, 
Like  sea-gems  from  their  sparry  caves ! 

****** 
Why  gaze  I  thus? — 'tis  worse  than  vain  ! 

'Twas  here  I  gazed  in  years  gone  by, 
Ere  life's  cold  winds  had  breathed  one  stain 

On  Fancy's  rich  and  mellow  sky. 


122  A   NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

I  feel,  I  feel  those  early  years 
Deep  thrilling  through  the  fount  of  tears, 
And  hurrying  brightly,  wildly  back 
O'er  Memory's  deep  and  burning  track  ! 

'Twas  here  I  gazed  !    The  night-bird  still 

Pours  its  sweet  song  ;  the  starlight  beams 
Still  tinge  the  flower  and  forest  hill ; 

And  music  gushes  from  the  streams  ; 
But  I  am  changed  !  I  feel  no  more 
The  sinless  joys  that  charmed  before  ; 
And  the  dear  years,  so  far  departed, 
Come  but  to  "  mock  the  broken-hearted  !  " 


LINES   TO   A   LADY. 

"T    ADY,  I'  ve  gazed  on  thee, 
J — J  And  tbou  art  now  a  vision  of  the  Past, 
A  spirit-star,  whose  holy  light  is  cast 
On  memory's  voiceless  sea. 

That  star — it  lingers  there 
As  beautiful  as  't  were  a  dewy  flower, 
Soft-wafted  down  from  Eden's  glorious  bower, 

And  floating  in  mid-air. 

It  is,  that  blessed  one, 
The  day-star  of  my  destiny — the  first 
I  e'er  could  worship  as  the  Persian  erst 

Worshiped  his  own  loved  sun. 

On  all  my  years  may  lie 

The  shadow  of  the  tempest,  their  dark  flow 
Be  wild  and  drear,  but  that  dear  star  will  glow 

Still  beautiful  on  high. 


BIRTH-DAY   REFLECTIONS. 

IT  will  be  over  soon.     Another  year 
Is  gone,  and  its  low  knell  is  tolling  now 
O'er  the  wide  ocean  of  the  Past. 

Alas  ! 

I  am  not  as  in  boyhood.     There  were  hours 
Of  joyousness  that  came  like  angel-shapes 
Upon  my  heart,  but  they  are  altered  now, 
And  rise  on  Memory's  view  like  statues  pale 
By  a  dim  fount  of  tears.     And  there  were  streams 
Upon  whose  breasts  the  sweet  young  blossoms  leaned, 
To  list  the  gush  of  music,  but  their  depths 
Are  turned  to  dust.     There,  too,  were  blessed  lights 
That  shone,  sweet  rainbows  of  the  spirit,  o'er 
The  skies  of  new  existence,  but  their  gleams, 
Like  the  lost  Pleiad  of  the  olden  time, 
Have  faded  from  the  zenith,  and  are  lost 
'Mid  earth's  cold  mockeries  ! 

How  all  is  changed  ! 

The  guardians  of  my  young  and  sinless  years 
No  more  are  dwellers  of  the  earth.     Their  tones 


BIRTH-DAT  REFLECTIONS.  125 

Of  love  oft  dwell  upon  the  twilight  breeze, 

Or  wander  sweetly  down  through  mists  and  dews, 

At  midnight's  calm  and  melancholy  hour, 

But  voice  alone  is  there  !    Ages  of  thought 

Come  o'er  me  then,  and,  with  a  spirit  won 

Back  to  my  earlier  years,  I  kneel  again 

At  young  life's  broken  shrine. 

The  thirst  of  power 
Has  been  a  fever  to  my  spirit.     Oft, 
Even  in  my  boyhood,  I  was  wont  to  gaze 
Upon  the  awful  cataract  rushing  down 
With  its  eternal  thunder  peal,  the  lone 
Expanse  of  Ocean  with  its  infinite 
Of  dark  blue  waters  roaring  to  the  heavens, 
The  night-storm  fiercely  rending  the  great  oaks 
From  their  rock-pinnacles,  the  giant-clouds 
Waving  their  plumes  like  warriors  in  the  sky, 
And  darting  their  quick  lightning  through  the  air 
Like  the  red  flash  of  swords — aye,  I  was  wont 
To  gaze  on  these  and  almost  weep  to  think 
I  could  not  match  their  strength.     The  same  wild  thirst 
For  power  is  yet  upon  me  ;  it  has  been 
A  madness  in  my  day-dreams,  and  a  curse 
Upon  my  being  ;  it  has  led  me  on 
To  mingle  in  the  strife  of  men  ;  and  now 
A  myriad  foes  have  left  upon  my  name 
The  stain  of  their  vile  breaths. 


126  BIRTH-DAT  REFLECTIONS. 

Well,  be  it  so  ! 

There  is  a  silent  purpose  in  my  heart, 
And  neither  love,  nor  hate,  nor  fear  shall  quell 
That  one  fixed  daring.     Though  my  being's  stream 
Gives  forth  no  music  now,  'tis  passing  back 
To  its  great  fountain  in  the  skies,  and  there 
'T  will  rest  forever  in  the  ocean-tide 
Of  God's  immensity.     I  will  not  mourn 
Life's  shrouded  memories.     I  can  still  drink  in 
The  unshadowed  beauties  of  the  universe, 
Gaze  with  a  soul  of  pride  upon  the  blue 
Magnificence  above,  and  hear  the  hymns 
Of  Heaven  in  all  the  starry  beams,  and  fill 
Glen,  vale,  and  wood  and  mountain  with  the  bright 
And  glorious  visions  poured  from  the  deep  home 
Of  an  immortal  mind.     Past  year,  farewell! 


THE   INVALID'S   REPLY. 

"\  T^ES,  dear  one,  I  am  dying.     Hope  at  times 
I       Has  whispered  to  me,  in  her  siren  tones, 
But  now,  alas  !   I  feel  the  tide  of  life 
Fast  ebbing  from  my  heart.     I  know  that  soon 
The  green  and  flowery  curtain  of  the  grave 
Will  close  as  softly  round  my  fading  form 
As  the  calm  shadows  of  the  evening  hour 
Close  o'er  the  fading  stream. 

Oh  !  there  are  times 

When  my  heart's  tears  gush  wildly  at  the  thought 
That,  in  the  fresh,  young  morning-tide  of  life, 
I  must  resign  my  breath.     To  me  the  earth 
Is  very  beautiful.     I  love  its  flowers, 
Its  birds,  its  dews,  its  rainbows,  its  glad  streams, 
Its  vales,  its  mountains,  its  green,  wooing  woods, 
Its  moonlight  clouds,  its  sunsets,  and  its  soft 
And  dewy  twilights  ;  and  I  needs  must  mourn 
To  think  that  I  so  soon  shall  pass  away, 
And  see  them  nevermore. 

But  thou,  the  loved 
And  fondly  cherished  idol  of  my  life. 


128  v    THE  INVALID'S  REPLT. 

Thou  dear  twin-spirit  of  my  deathless  soul, 

'Twill  be  the  keenest  anguish  of  my  heart 

To  part  from  thee.     True,  we  have  never  loved 

With  the  wild  passion  that  fills  heart  and  brain 

With  flame  and  madness,  yet  my  love  for  thee 

Is  my  life's  life.     A  deeper,  holier  love 

Has  never  sighed  and  wept  beneath  the  stars, 

Or  glowed  within  the  breasts  of  saints  in  heaven. 

It  does  not  seem  a  passion  of  my  heart, 

It  is  a  portion  of  my  soul.     I  feel 

That  I  am  but  a  softened  shade  of  thee, 

And  that  my  spirit,  parted  from  thine  own, 

Might  fade  and  perish  from  the  universe 

Like  a  star-shadow  when  the  star  itself 

Is  hidden  by  the  storm-cloud.     Aye,  I  fear 

That  Heaven  itself,  though  filled  with  love  and  God, 

Will  be  to  me  all  desolate,  if  thon, 

Dear  spirit,  art  not  there.     I  've  often  prayed 

That  I  might  die  before  thee,  for  I  felt 

I  could  not  dwell  without  thee  on  the  earth, 

And  now  my  heart  is  breaking  at  the  thought 

Of  dying  while  thou  livest,  for  I  feel, 

My  life's  dear  idol,  that  I  can  not  dwell 

Without  thee  in  the  sky.     Yet  well  I  know 

That  love  like  ours,  so  holy,  pure  and  high, 

So  far  above  the  passions  of  the  earth, 

Can  perish  not  with  mortal  Iife0     In  Heaven 


THE   INVALID'S  REPLT.  129 

'Twill  brighten  to  a  lovely  star,  and  glow 

In  the  far  ages  of  eternity, 

More  beautiful  and  radiant  than  when  first 

'Twas  kindled  into  glory.      Oh  !   I  love, 

I  dearly  love  thce — these  \vill  be  my  last, 

My  dying  words  upon  the  earth,  and  they 

Will  be  my  first  when  we  shall  meet  in  Heaven  ; 

And  when  ten  thousand  myriads  of  vears 

Shall  fade  into  the  past  eternity, 

My  soul  will  breathe  the  same  dear  words  to  thine — 

I  love  thee,  oh  !  I  love  thee  ! 

Weak  and  low 

My  pulse  of  life  is  fluttering  at  my  heart, 
And  soon  'twill  cease  forever.     These  faint  words 
Are  the  last  echoes  of  the  spirit's  chords, 
Stirred  by  the  breath  of  Memory.     Bear  me,  love, 
I  pray  thce,  to  yon  open  window  now, 
That  I  may  look  once  more  on  Nature's  face 
And  listen  to  her  gentle  music-tone — 
Her  holy  voice  of  love.     How  beautiful, 
How  very  beautiful,  are  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  o'erarching  sky,  to  one  whose  eyes 
Are  soon  to  close  upon  the  scenes  of  Time  ! 
Yon  blue  lake  sleeps  beneath  the  flower-crowned  hill 
With  his  sweet  picture  on  her  breast ;  the  white 
And  rosy  clouds  are  floating  through  the  air 
Like  cars  of  happy  spirits  ;  every  leaf 


130  THE  INVALID'S  REPLT. 

And  flower  is  colored  by  the  crimson  hues 

Of  the  rich  sunset,  as  the  heart  is  tinged 

By  thoughts  of  Paradise  ;  and  the  for  trees 

Seem  as  if  leaning,  like  departed  souls, 

Upon  the  holy  heavens.     And  look  !  oh  look  ! 

Yon  lovely  star,  the  glorious  evening  star, 

Is  shining  there,  far,  far  above  the  mists 

And  dews  of  earth,  like  the  bright  star  of  faith 

Above  our  mortal  tears  !  I  ne'er  before 

Beheld  the  earth  so  green,  the  sky  so  blue, 

The  sunset  and  the  star  of  eve  so  bright, 

And  soft,  and  beautiful ;  I  never  felt 

The  dewy  twilight  breeze  so  calm  and  fresh 

Upon  my  cheek  and  brow  ;  I  never  heard 

The  melodies  of  wind,  and  bird,  and  wave, 

Fall  with  such  sweetness  on  the  ear.     I  know 

That  Heaven  is  full  of  glory,  but  a  God 

Of  love  and  mercy  will  forgive  the  tears, 

Wrung  from  the  fountain  of  my  frail  young  heart, 

By  the  sad  thought  of  parting  with  the  bright 

And  lovely  things  of  earth. 

And,  dear  one,  now 

I  feel  that  my  poor  heart  must  bid  farewell 
To  thine.     Oh  !  no,  no,  dearest !  not  farewell, 
For  oft  I  will  be  with  thee  on  the  earth, 
Although  my  home  be  Heaven.     At  eventide 
When  thou  art  wandering  by  the  silent  stream, 


THE  INVALID'S  REPLY.  131 

To  muse  upon  the  sweet  and  mournful  Past, 
I  will  walk  with  thee,  hand  in  hand,  and  share 
Thy  gentle  thoughts  and  fancies  ;  in  thy  grief. 
When  all  seems  dark  and  desolate  around 
Thy  bleak  and  lonely  pathway,  I  will  glide 
Like  a  bright  shadow  o'er  thy  soul,  and  charm 
Away  thy  sorrow  ;  in  the  quiet  hush 
Of  the  deep  night,  when  thy  dear  head  is  laid 
Upon  thy  pillow,  and  thy  spirit  craves 
Communion  with  my  spirit,  I  will  come 
To  nerve  thy  heart  with  strength,  and  gently  lay 
My  lip  upon  thy  forehead  with  a  touch 
Like  the  soft  kisses  of  the  southern  breeze 
Stealing  o'er  bowers  of  roses  ;  when  the  wild, 
Dark  storms  of  life  beat  fiercely  on  thy  head, 
Thou  wilt  behold  my  semblance  on  the  cloud, 
A  rainbow  to  thy  spirit ;  I  will  bend 
At  times  above  the  fount  within  thy  soul, 
And  thou  wilt  see  my  image  in  its  depths, 
Gazing  into  thy  dark  eyes  with  a  smile 
As  I  have  gazed  in  life.     And  I  will  come 
To  thee  in  dreams,  my  spirit-mate,  and  we, 
With  clasping  hands  and  interwining  wings, 
Will  nightly  wander  o'er  the  starry  deep, 
And  by  the  blessed  streams  of  Paradise, 
Loving  in  Heaven  as  we  have  loved  on  earth. 


COME   TO  ME  IN  DREAMS. 


OME  in  beautiful  dreams,  love, 

Oh  !  come  to  me  oft, 
When  the  light  wings  of  sleep 

On  my  bosom  lie  soft  ; 
Oh  !  come  when  the  sea, 

In  the  moon's  gentle  light, 
Beats  low  on  the  ear 

Like  the  pulse  of  the  night  ; 
When  the  sky  and  the  wave 

Wear  their  holiest  blue, 
When  the  clew  's  on  the  flower 

And  the  star  on  the  dew. 

Come  in  beautiful  dreams,  love, 

Oh  !  come  and  we  '11  stray 
Where  the  whole  year  is  crowned 

With  the  blossoms  of  May  ; 
Where  each  sound  is  as  sweet 

As  the  coo  of  a  dove, 
And  the  gales  are  as  soft 

As  the  breathing  of  love  ; 


COME    TO   ME  IN  DREAMS.  133 

Where  the  beams  kiss  the  waves, 

And  the  waves  kiss  the  beach, 
And  our  warm  lips  shall  catch 

The  sweet  lessons  they  teach. 

Come  in  beautiful  dreams,  love, 

Oh  !  come  and  we  '11  fly 
Like  two  winged  spirits 

Of  love  through  the  sky ; 
With  hand  clasped  in  hand 

On  our  dream-wings  we'll  go 
Where  the  starlight  and  moonlight 

Are  blending  their  glow  ; 
And  on  bright  clouds  we'll  linger 

Of  purple  and  gold, 
Till  love's  angels  envy 

The  bliss  they  behold. 


TO   ROSA. 

NOT  in  the  Grecian  isles, 
Not  where  the  bright  flowers  of  Illyssus  shine, 
E'er  moved  a  breathing  form  whose  beauty's  wiles 
Could  match  with  thine. 

Not  where  the  golden  glow 

Of  Italy's  clear  sky  is  pure  and  clear, 
Not  where  the  beauteous  waves  of  Leman  flow, 

Hast  thou  thy  peer. 

Not  where  the  sunlight  falls 

On  bright  Circassia  through  the  perfumed  air, 
Nor  in  old  Stamboul's  oriental  halls, 

Dwells  one  so  fair. 

No  fabled  form  of  old, 

Not  hers  who  rose  from  out  the  foaming  sea, 
Though  deemed  more  fair  than  aught  of  earthly  mould, 

Transcended  thee. 


TO  ROSA.  135 

In  thy  dark  eyes  a  spell 

Of  beauty  lingers,  but  their  glance  of  fire, 
When  thy  proud,  spirit  is  aroused,  might  quell 

The  lion's  ire. 

Thou  movest  floatingly, 

As  the  light  cloud  that  to  the  zephyr  yields, 
But  with  a  step  proud  as  a  queen's  might  be 
O'er  conquered  fields. 

And  thou  hast  that  strange  eift, 

O          O  * 

The  gift  of  genius,  high  and  proud  and  strong, 
At  whose  behest  thoughts    beautiful  and  swift 
Around  thee  throng. 

They  come  to  thee  from  far, 

From  air,  and  earth,  and  ocean's  boundless  deeps ; 
They  rush  in  glory  from  each  shining  star 

On  heaven's  blue  steeps. 

They  leap  from  earth's  far  bound — 

Forth  from  the  red  volcano's  depths  they  start — 
From  bow  and  cloud  they  float — and  gather  round 

Thy  burning  heart. 

Then  at  thy  high  command 

They  stand  all  marshaled  in  thy  peerless  lay, 
As  some  great  warrior  marshals  his  proud  band 

In  bright  array. 


136  TO  ROSA. 

Thy  hand  has  power  to  trace 

Words  as  enduring  as  yon  planet's  flame, 
Words  that  forever,  'mid  our  changing  race, 

Will  keep  thy  name. 

Linked  with  bright  song  alone, 

That  name  o'er  Time's  wild  heaving  waves  will  sweep, 
As  o'er  the  water  sweeps  the  bugle  tone 

At  midnight  deep. 

Thy  magic  strains  will  make 

A  portion  of  earth's  living  music,  heard 
Forever,  like  the  cadences  of  lake 

And  breeze  and  bird. 

The  world  of  Nature  glows 

In  thy  bright  page  more  lovely  to  the  eye, 
As  when,  o'er  hills  and  plain,  the  sunset  throws 

Its  golden  dye. 

And  thou  art  very  dear 

To  many  hearts,  thou  bright  and  gifted  one, 
Aye,  men  adore  thee,  as  the  Persian  seer 

Adored  the  sun. 


A  MEMORY. 

I  KNOW  a  fair  young  girl, 
With  a  spirit  wild  and  free 
As  the  birds  that  flit  o'er  the  dimpling  wave, 

Then  away  to  the  wildwood  flee  ; 
And  she  seems  like  a  wreath  of  mist, 

As  she  moves  through  the  summer  bowers, 
With  a  step  too  floatingly  soft  to  break 
The  sleep  of  the  dreaming  flowers. 

Her  eye  is  bright  and  clear 

As  the  depths  of  a  shaded  spring, 
And  beauty's  name  on  her  brow  is  set — 

On  her  cheek  its  signet-ring  ; 
And  her  voice  is  like  the  sound 

Of  a  wave  through  the  twilight  leaves, 
Or  a  Peri's  tones  from  a  moonlight  cloud 

In  the  hush  of  the  summer  eves. 

Along  her  temples  pale, 

The  blue  veins  seem  to  flow, 
In  their  winding  course,  half  seen,  half  hid, 

Like  streams  in  a  field  of  snow  ; 


A   MEM OR  T. 

And  her  shining  tresses  there 

Their  beautiful  light  unfold, 
Like  a  painted  cloud  where  the  sunset  lifts 

Its  shadowy  wings  of  gold. 

To  me  each  thought  of  her 

Is  a  gleam  of  light  and  love, 
A  gentle  dream  sent  down  to  earth 

From  the  holy  depths  above  ; 
'Tis  a  blessed  sunbeam  cast 

On  affliction's  cloud  of  tears, 
A  star  o'er  the  waste  of  a  weary  heart, 

A  bow  on  the  sky  of  years. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  YEARS. 

ONE  !  gone  forever  ! — like  a  rushing  wave 

Another  Year  has  burst  upon  the  shore 
Of  earthly  being,  and  its  last  low  tones, 
Wandering  in  broken  accents  on  the  air, 
Are  dying  to  an  echo. 

The  gay  Spring, 

With  its  young  charms,  has  gone — gone  with  its  leaves 
Its  atmosphere  of  roses — its  white  clouds 
Slumbering  like  seraphs  in  the  air — its  birds 
Telling  their  loves  in  music — and  its  streams 
Leaping  and  shouting  from  the  up-piled  rocks 
To  make  earth  echo  with  the  joy  of  waves. 
And  Summer,  with  its  dews  and  showers,  has  gone — 
Its  rainbows  glowing  on  the  distant  cloud 
Like  Spirits  of  the  Storm — its  peaceful  lakes 
Smiling  in  their  sweet  sleep,  as  if  their  dreams 
Were  of  the  opening  flowers  and  budding  trees 
And  overhanging  sky — and  its  bright  mists 
Resting  upon  the  mountain-tops,  as  crowns 
Upon  the  heads  of  giants.     Autumn,  too, 
Has  gone,  with  all  its  deeper  glories — gone 


140  THE  FLIGHT    OF   TEARS, 

With  its  green  hills  like  altars  of  the  world 
Lifting  their  rich  fruit-offerings  to  their  God — 
Its  cool  winds  straying  mid  the  forest  aisles 
To  wake  their  thousand  wind-harps — its  serene 
And  holy  sunsets  hanging  o'er  the  West 
Like  banners  from  the  battlements  of  heaven — 
And  its  still  evenings,  when  the  moonlit  sea 
Was  ever  throbbing,  like  the  living  heart 
Of  the  great  Universe.     Aye — these  are  now 
But  sounds  and  visions  of  the  Past — their  deep, 
Wild  beauty  has  departed  from  the  earth, 
And  they  are  gathered  to  the  embrace  of  Death, 
Their  solemn  herald  to  Eternity. 

Nor  have  they  gone  alone.     High  human  hearts 
Of  passion  have  gone  with  them.     The  fresh  dust 
Is  chill  on  many  a  breast,  that  burned  erewhile 
With  fires  that  seemed  immortal.     Joys,  that  leaped 
Like  angels  from  the  heart,  and  wandered  free 
In  life's  young  morn  to  look  upon  the  flowers, 
The  poetry  of  nature,  and  to  list 
The  woven  sounds  of  breeze,  and  bird,  and  stream, 
Upon  the  night- air,  have  been  stricken  clown 
In  silence  to  the  dust.     Exultant  Hope, 
That  roved  forever  on  the  buoyant  winds 
Like  the  bright,  starry  bird  of  Paradise, 
And  chanted  to  the  ever-listening:  heart 


THE   FLIGHT    OF    TEARS.  141 

In  the  wild  music  of  a  thousand  tongues, 

Or  soared  into  the  open  sky,  until 

Night's  burning  gems  seemed  jeweled  on  her  brow, 

Has  shut  her  drooping  wing,  and  made  her  home 

Within  the  voiceless  sepulcher.     And  Love, 

That  knelt  at  Passion's  holiest  shrine,  and  gazed 

On  his  heart's  idol  as  on  some  sweet  star, 

Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  dear, 

And  dreamed  of  ecstacies,  until  his  soul 

Seemed  but  a  lyre   that  wakened  in  the  glance 

Of  the  beloved  one — he  too  has  gone 

To  his  eternal  resting-place.     And  where 

Is  stern  Ambition — -he  who  madly  grasped 

At  Glory's  fleeting  phantom — he  who  sought 

His  fame  upon  the  battlefield,  and  longed 

To  make  his  throne  a  pyramid  of  bones 

Amid  the  sea  of  blood?    He  too  has  gone  ! 

His  stormy  voice  is  mute — his  mighty  arm 

Is  nerveless  on  its  clod — his  very  name 

Is  but  a  meteor  of  the  night  of  years 

Whose  gleams  flashed  out  a  moment  o'er  the  earth, 

And  faded  into  nothingness.     The  dream 

Of  high  devotion,  beauty's  bright  array, 

And  life's  deep  idol  memories — all  have  passed 

Like  the  cloud-shadows  on  the  starlit  stream, 

Or  a  soft  strain  of  music,  when  the  winds 


142  THE  FLIGHT   OF   TEARS. 

Are  slumbering  on  the  billow. 

Yet,  \vhy  muse 

Upon  the  Past  with  sorrow  ?    Though  the  Year 
Has  gone  to  blend  with  the  mysterious  tide 
Of  old  Eternity,  and  borne  along 
Upon  its  heaving  breast  a  thousand  wrecks 
Of  glory  and  of  beauty — yet,  why  mourn 
That  such  is  destiny  ?   Another  Year 
Succeeded!  to  the  past — in  their  bright  round 
The  seasons  came  and  go — the  same  blue  arch, 
That  hath  hung  o'er  us,  will  hang  o'er  us  yet — 
The  same  pure  stars  that  we  have  loved  to  watch, 
Will  blossom  still  at  twilight's  gentle  hour 
Like  lilies  on  the  tomb  of  Day — and  still 
Man  will  remain,  to  dream  as  he  hath  dreamed, 
And  mark  the  earth  with  passion.     Love  will  spring 
From  the  lone  tomb  of  old  affections — Hope 
And  Joy  and  great  Ambition,  will  rise  up 
As  they  have  risen — and  their  deeds  will  be 
Brighter  than  those  engraven  on  the  scroll 
Of  parted  centuries.     Even  now  the  sea 
Of  coming  years,  beneath  whose  mighty  waves 
Life's  great  events  are  heaving  into  birth, 
Is  tossing  to  and  fro,  as  if  the  winds 
Of  heaven  were  prisoned  in  its  soundless  depths 
And  struggling  to  be  free. 


THE  FLIGHT   OF    TEARS.  143 

Weep  not,  that  Time 
Is  passing  on — it  will  ere  long  reveal 
A  brighter  era  to  the  nations.     Hark  ! 
Along  the  vales  and  mountains  of  the  earth 
There  is  a  deep,  portentous  murmuring, 
Like  the  swift  rush  of  subterranean  streams, 
Or  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  earth  and  air, 
When  the  fierce  Tempest,  with  sonorous  wing, 
Heaves  his  deep  folds  upon  the  rushing  winds, 
And  hurries  onward  with  his  night  of  clouds 
Against  the  eternal  mountains.     'T  is  the  voice 

£? 

Of  infant  Freedom — and  her  stirring  call 

Is  heard  and  answered  in  a  thousand  tones 

From  every  hill-top  of  her  Western  home  ; 

And  lo  !  it  breaks  across  old  Ocean's  flood, 

And  "  Freedom  !  Freedom  !  "  is  the  answering  shout 

Of  nations  starting  from  the  spell  of  years. 

The  day-spring  ! — see,  'tis  brightening  in  the  heavens! 

The  watchmen  of  the  night  have  caught  the  sign — 

From  tower  to  tower  the  signal-fires  flash  free — 

And  the  deep  watch-word,  like  the  rush  of  seas 

That  heralds  the  volcano's  bursting  flame, 

Is  sounding  o'er  the  earth.     Bright  years  of  hope 

And  life  arc  on  the  wing  ! — yon  glorious  bow 

Of  Freedom,  bended  by  the  hand  of  God, 

Is  spanning  Time's  dark  surges.     Its  high  arch, 

A  type  of  Love  and  Mercy  on  the  cloud, 


144 


THE   FLIGHT   OF    TEARS. 


Tells  that  the  many  storms  of  human  life 
Will  pass  in  silence,  and  the  sinking  waves, 
Gathering  the  forms  of  glory  and  of  peace, 
Reflect  the  undi mined  brightness  of  the  heavens. 


TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   AUTHORESS.* 

I  LONGED  to  see  thee,  gifted  one, 
For  fame,  in  accents  warm, 
Had  told  me  of  thy  loveliness 
Of  mind,  and  face,  and  form  ; 
But  oh,  I  did  not  think  to  meet 
Such  charms  as  I  have  met ; 
My  dreams  of  thee  were  very  bright, 
But  thou  art  brighter  yet. 

When  Plato  lay,  in  infancy, 

In  slumber's  soft  eclipse, 

'T  is  said  the  gentle  honey-bees 

Came  clustering  'round  his  lips  ; 

And  thus,  as  on  thy  lips  we  look, 

So  eloquent  and  warm, 

A  thousand  sweet  and  winged  thoughts 

Around  thee  seem  to  swarm. 

*The  authoress  of  "  Belle  Smith  Abroad." 


146  TO  A   BEAUTIFUL   AUTHORESS. 

A  spell  is  in  thy  dark,  bright  eyes, 

The  wildest  soul  to  tame, 

Dark  as  the  tempest-cloud  and  bright 

As  its  quick  glance  of  flame  ; 

And  gazing  in  their  earnest  depths, 

I  see  more  angels  there 

Than  fancy,  to  a  dreaming  seer, 

E'er  pictured  in  the  air. 

Young  Genius  his  own  coronal 

Around  thy  forehead  wreathes, 

And  high  thoughts  are  the  atmosphere 

In  which  thy  spirit  breathes  ; 

Thy  soul  can  read  the  mysteries 

Of  cloud,  and  sky,  and  star, 

And  hear  the  tones  of  Eden-spheres 

Borne  sweetly  down  from  far. 

For  thee,  the  soul  of  poetry 

The  universe  pervades  — 

It  glitters  in  the  light,  and  dwells, 

All  softened,  in  the  shades  ; 

The  young  waves  murmur  it,  the  dew 

Reflects  it  from  the  flower, 

The  blue  skies  breathe  it,  and  the  air 

Thrills  with  its  mystic  power. 


TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   AUTHORESS.  147 

Press  on,  bright  one,  press  proudly  on 

To  win  the  laurel  crown, 

And  set  thy  living  name  among 

The  names  of  old  renown  ; 

Press  on,  press  on,  and  thy  bright  fame 

Will  never,  never  die, 

But,  like  the  ivy,  brighter  grow 

As  centuries  pass  by. 


HENRY   CLAY. 

[WRITTEN  AFTER  HIS  DEATH.] 

WITH  voice  and  mien  of  stern  control, 
He  stood  among  the  great  and  proud, 
And  words  of  fire  burst  from  his  soul 

Like  lightnings  from  the  tempest-cloud  ; 
His  high  and  deathless  themes  were  crowned 

With  glory  of  his  genius  born, 
And  gloom  and  ruin  darkly  frowned 

Where  fell  his  bolts  of  wrath  and  scorn. 

But  he  is  gone,  the  free,  the  bold, 

The  champion  of  his  country's  right ; 
His  burning  eye  is  dim  and  cold, 

And  mute  his  voice  of  conscious  might. 
Oh,  no  !  not  mute  ;  the  stirring  call 

Can  startle  tyrants  on  their  thrones, 
And  on  the  hearts  of  nations  fall 

More  awful  than  his  living  tones. 


HENRT  CLAY.  149 

The  impulse  that  his  spirit  gave 

To  human  thought's  wild,  stormy  sea, 
Will  heave  and  thrill  through  every  wave 

Of  that  great  deep  eternally  ; 
And  the  all-circling  atmosphere, 

With  which  is  blent  his  breath  of  flame, 
Will  sound  with  cadence  deep  and  clear, 

In  storm  and  calm,  his  voice  and  name. 

His  words,  that  like  a  bugle  blast 

Erst  rang  along  the  Grecian  shore, 
And  o'er  the  hoary  Andes  passed, 

Will  still  ring  on  forevermore. 
Great  Liberty  will  catch  the  sounds, 

And  start  to  newer,  brighter  life, 
And  summon  from  earth's  utmost  bounds 

Her  children  to  the  glorious  strife. 

Unnumbered  pilgrims  o'er  the  wave, 

In  the  far  ages  yet  to  be, 
Will  come  to  kneel  beside  his  grave, 

And  hail  him  prophet  of  the  free. 
'Tis  holier  ground,  that  lowly  bed, 

In  which  his  mouldering  form  is  laid, 
Than  fields  where  Liberty  has  bled 

Beside  her  broken  battle-blade. 


150  HENRT  CLAT. 

Who,  now  in  danger's  fearful  hour, 

When  all  around  is  wild  and  dark, 
Shall  guide,  with  voice  and  arm  of  power, 

Our  Freedom's  consecrated  ark? 
With  stricken  hearts,  O  God  !   to  thee, 

Beneath  whose  feet  the  stars  are  dust, 
We  bow,  and  ask  that  thou  wilt  be, 

Through  every  ill,  our  stay  and  trust. 


MY   OLD   HOME. 

AND  I  have  come  yet  once  again  to  stray 
Where  erst  I  strayed  in  childhood.    Oh,  'tis  sweet 
To  gaze  upon  the  dear  old  landscape  !     Here 
My  thoughts  first  reveled  in  the  wild  delight 
Of  new  existence  !     Here  my  infant  eye 
First  dwelt  on  Nature  in  her  loveliness  : 
The  golden  flash  of  waters,  the  bright  flowers 
That  seemed  to  spring  in  very  wantonness 
From  every  hill  and  stream  ;  the  earth's  green  leaves, 
The  moonlight  mountains,  the  bright  crimson  gush, 
That  deepening  streamed  along  the  skies  of  morn, 
And  the  rich  heavens  of  sunset !      Here  I  loved 
To  gaze  upon  the  holy  arch  of  eve 
In  breathless  longing,  till  I  almost  dreamed 
That  I  was  mingling  with  its  glorious  depths, 
A  portion  of  their  purity  ;  to  muse 
Upon  the  stars  through  many  a  lonely  night, 
Till  their  deep  tones  of  mystic  minstrelsy 
Were  borne  into  my  heart ;  to  list  at  morn 
The  gentle  voice  of  song-birds  in  their  joy 
Lifting  on  high  their  matins,  till  my  soul, 


152  MT  OLD   HOME. 

Like  theirs,  gushed  forth  in  music  ;   and  to  look 
Upon  the  clouds  in  beauty  wandering  up 
The  deep  blue  zenith,  till  my  heart,  like  them, 
Went  far  away  through  yon  high  paths  to  seek 
The  home  of  thought  and  spirit  in  the  heavens. 


YEARS  have  passed  by  upon  their  shadowy  wings, 

Yet  o'er  this  spot  no  change  has  come  to  tell 

The  noiseless  flight  of  Time.     The  far-off  hills 

Are  still  as  blue,  the  wave  as  musical, 

The  wild  rose  blooms  as  fresh  and  fair,  the  winds 

Breathe  yet  as  freshly  on  my  brow,  the  trees 

Still  cast  as  soft  a  shadow,  and  as  sweet 

The  violet  springs  to  woo  the  breath  of  heaven, 

As  in  my  years  of  infancy.     I  range 

Where  erst  I  sported  by  the  leaping  stream, 

And  the  glad  birds,  as  they  remembered  yet 

And  loved  the  stranger,  chant  the  same  sweet  songs 

I  strayed  to  hear  ere  childhood's  silken  locks 

Had  darkened  on  my  temples.     Can  it  be 

That  the  dark  seal  of  Time  and  Change  is  set 

Upon  my  brow  ?    Each  spot  I  loved  still  blooms 

In  beauty  undecayed  ;  I  hear  no  sound 

That  tells  the  tale  of  years  ;   and  can  it  be 

That  I  alone  am  faded?    Were  it  not 


MT  OLD  HOME.  153 

That  many  a  fearful  tale  of  sin  and  woe, 

And  strife  and  desolation,  has  been  graved 

On  Memory's  darkened  scroll — oh,  were  it  not 

That  passion's  burning  pathway  has  been  traced 

So  deep,  so  fiercely  vivid,  that  my  heart 

Is  withering  yet  beneath  it,  I  could  deem 

That  I  were  still  a  pure  and  sinless  child 

Just  'wakened  from  a  long,  long  dream  of  tears, 

To  gaze  again  in  infant  recklessness 

On  earth,  and  heaven,  and  ocean,  and  again 

To  paint  the  future  as  a  lovely  throng 

Of  bright  and  glorious  visions  beckoning  on 

To  the  blue  beauty  of  life's  Eden-isles. 


An  !  'tis  as  in  my  childhood.     Years  have  passed, 

Long  years  of  weariness,  since  last  I  gazed 

Upon  those  hills  and  waters  ;  yet  again, 

As  here  I  muse,  life's  early  memories 

Steal  in  their  freshness  o'er  me,  and  my  heart 

Leaps  to  the  sweet,  wild  melody  that  thrilled 

Through  all  its  depths  ere  life's  bright  bow  had  gone 

From  childhood's  purple  morning,  or  the  stream 

Of  Time,  that  gushed  exulting  by,  had  lost 

The  tints  of  Heaven's  blue  beauty.     Memory  hangs 

With  fondness  on  each  dear  memento  yet, 


154  MT  OLD  HOME. 

That  tells  of  those  far  years  ;  and  many  a  chord, 
Touched  by  her  melancholy  hand,  awakes 
From  its  long,  dreamless  slumber,  and  its  strains 
Of  sweet  and  mournful  music  faintly  fall 
Upon  the  ear  of  Fancy,  like  the  tones 
That  come  upon  the  dying  winds  of  eve 
From  the  far  moonlight  ocean,  when  the  storm 
Sleeps  on  the  night-cloud  and  the  waters  heave 
As  heaves  the  stricken  bosom. 

Every  scene 

Is  living  with  the  voiceless  spirit  still 
Of  life's  departed  Eden.     Early  joys, 
So  sweet,  so  beautiful,  they  almost  seem 
The  wild  creations  of  a  wizard  tale, 
With  lightning-glow  are  flashing  up  life's  stream, 
And  breaking  on  my  spirit  with  a  power 
I  thought  had  died  to  live  no  more.     I  gaze 
On  scenes  once  blended  with  the  happy  hours 
Of  youth  and  ecstasy,  and  feel  that  life, 
Though  shadowed  by  the  somber  wing  of  years, 
Is  not  all  turned  to  bitterness.     The  flame 
Has  fallen,  and  its  high  and  fitful  gleams 
Perchance  have  faded,  but  the  living  fires 
Still  glow  beneath  the  ashes.     The  bright  stream 
Is  wasted,  and  its  wave  has  ceased  to  flash 
In  gladness  to  the  sunlight,  and  to  bear 
The  flowers  upon  its  sparkling  bosom,  yet 


MT  OLD   HOME.  155 


'Twill  flow  on  in  undying  freshness  still 
Deep  in  its  buried  channels  evermore. 


AH  !  how  the  silent  memories  of  years 

Are  stirring  in  my  spirit.     I  have  been 

A  lone  and  joyless  wanderer.     I  have  roamed 

Abroad  through  other  climes,  where  tropic  flowers 

Were  offering  up  their  incense,  and  the  stars 

Swimming  like  living  creatures  ;   I  have  strayed 

Where  the  soft  skies  of  Italy  were  hung 

In  beautiful  transparency  above, 

And  glory  floating  like  a  lovely  dream 

O'er  the  rich  landscape  ;  yet  dear  Fancy  still, 

'Mid  all  the  richer  glow  of  brighter  realms, 

Oft  turned  to  picture  the  remembered  home, 

That  blessed  its  earliest  day-dreams.     Must  I  go 

Forth  in  the  world  again?    I've  proved  its  joys, 

Till  joy  was  turned  to  bitterness — I've  felt 

Its  sorrows  till  I  thought  my  heart  would  burst 

With  the  fierce  rush  of  tears  !    The  sorrowing  babe 

Clings  to  its  mother's  breast.     The  bleeding  dove 

Flies  to  her  native  vale,  and  nestles  there 

To  die  amid  the  quiet  grove,  where  first 

She  tried  her  tender  pinion.     I  could  love 

Thus  to  repose  amid  these  peaceful  scenes 


OLD   HOME. 


To  memory  dear.     Oh,  it  were  passing  sweet 

To  rest  forever  on  this  lovely  spot, 

Where  passed  my  days  of  innocence  —  to  dream 

Of  the  pure  stream  of  infant  happiness 

Sunk  in  life's  wild  and  burning  sands  —  to  dwell 

On  visions  faded,  till  my  broken  heart 

Should  cease  to  throb  —  to  purify  my  soul 

With  high  and  holy  musings  —  and  to  lift 

Its  aspirations  to  the  central  home 

Of  love,  and  peace,  and  holiness  in  Heaven. 


NIGHT   IN   CAVE   HILL   CEMETERY. 

ONE  evening,  dear  Virginia,  in  thy  life, 
When  thou  and  I  were  straying  side  by  side 
Beneath  the  holy  moonlight,  and  our  thoughts 
Seemed  taking  a  deep  hue  of  mournfulness 
From  the  sweet,  solemn  hour,  I  said — if  thou, 
Whose  young  years  scarcely  numbered  half  my  own, 
Should'st  pass  before  me  to  the  spirit-land, 
I  would,  on  some  mild  eve  beneath  the  moon, 
Shining  in  heaven  as  it  was  shining  then, 
Go  forth  alone  to  lay  me  by  thy  grave, 
And  render  to  thy  cherished  memory 
The  last  sad  tribute  of  a  stricken  heart. 
Thine  answer  was  a  sigh,  a  tear,  a  sob, 
A  gentle  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  thus 
My  earnest  vow  was  hallowed.     A  thin  cloud, 
Like  a  pale  winding-sheet,  that  moment  passed 
Across  the  moon,  and  as  its  shadow  fell, 
Like  a  mysterious  omen  of  the  tomb, 
Upon  our  kindred  spirits,  thou  didst  turn 
Thine  eye  to  that  wan  specter  of  the  skies, 
And,  gazing  on  the  solemn  portent,  weep 
As  if  thy  head  were  waters. 


158        NIGHT  IN  CAVE   HILL    CEMETERT. 

Weary  years 

Since  then  have  planted  furrows  on  my  brow, 
And  sorrows  in  my  heart,  and  the  pale  moon, 
That  shone  around  us  on  that  lovely  eve, 
Is  shining  now  upon  thy  swarded  grave, 
And  I  have  come,  a  pilgrim  of  the  night, 
To  bow  at  Memory's  holy  shrine,  and  keep 
My  tin  forgotten  vow. 

Dear,  parted  one, 

Friend  of  my  better  years,  dark  months  have  passed 
With  all  their  awful  shadows  o'er  the  earth, 
Since  the  green  turf  was  laid  above  thy  rest, 
'Mid  sighs  and  streaming  tears  and  stifled  groans, 
But,  oh  !  thy  gentle  memory  is  not  dim 
In  the  deep  hearts  that  loved  thee.     We  have  set 
This  sweet  young  rose-tree  o'er  thy  hallowed  grave, 
And  may  the  skies  shed  their  serenest  dews 
Around  it,  may  the  summer  clouds  distil 
Their  gentlest  rains  upon  it,  may  the  fresh 
Warm  zephyrs  fan  it  with  their  softest  breath, 
And  daily  may  the  bright  and  holy  beams 
Of  morning  greet  it  with  their  sweetest  smile, 
That  it  may  wave  its  roses  o'er  thy  dust, 
Dear  emblems  of  the  flowers  that  thou  so  oft 
In  life  didst  fling  upon  our  happy  hearts 
From  thy  own  spirit's  Eden.     Yet  we  know 


NIGHT  IX  CAVE  HILL    CE METER T.         159 

'Tis  but  an  humble  offering  to  thee, 

Who  dwcllest  where  the  fadeless  roses  bloom, 

In  Heaven's  eternal  sunshine. 

To  our  eyes 

Thy  beauty  has  not  faded  from  the  earth  ; 
We  see  it  in  the  flowers  that  lift  their  lids 
To  greet  the  early  spring-time,  in  the  bow 
The  magic  pencil  of  the  sunshine  paints 
Upon  the  flying  rain-clouds,  in  the  stars 
That  glitter  from  the  blue  abyss  of  night, 
And  in  the  strange,  mysterious  loveliness 
Of  every  holy  sunset.     To  our  ears 
The  music  of  thy  loved  tones  is  not  lost ; 
We  hear  it  in  the  low,  sweet  cadences 
Of  wave  and  stream  and  fountain,  in  the  notes 
Of  birds  that  from  the  sky  and  forest  hail 
The  sunrise  with  their  songs,  and  in  the  wild 
And  soul-like  breathings  of  the-  evening  wind 
Of  grove  and  forest.     Yet  no  sight  or  sound 
In  all  the  world  of  Nature  is  as  sweet, 
Dear,  lost  Virginia,  as  when  thou  wast  here 
To  gaze  and  listen  with  us.      The  young  flowers 
And  the  pure  stars  seem  pale  and  cold  and  dim, 
As  if  they  looked  through  blinding  tears  : — alas  ! 
The  tears  are  in  our  eyes.     The  melodies 
Of  wave  and  stream  and  bird  and  forest-harp, 


1GO          NIGHT  IN   CAVE  HILL    CEMETERT. 

Borne  on  the  soft  wings  of  the  evening  gale, 

Seem  blended  with  a  deep  wail  for  the  dead : 

Alas  !  the  wail  is  in  our  hearts. 

Lost  one  ! 

We  miss  thee  in  our  sadness  and  our  joy ! 
When  at  the  solemn  eventide  we  stray, 
'Mid  the  still  gathering  of  the  twilight  shades, 
To  muse  upon  the  dear  and  hallowed  Past, 
With  its  deep,  mournful  memories,  a  voice 
Comes  from  the  still  recesses  of  our  hearts — • 
"  She  is  not  herd"    In  the  gay,  festive  hour, 
When  music  peals  upon  the  perfumed  air, 
And  wit  and  mirth  are  ringing  in  our  ears, 
And  light  forms  floating  round  us  in  the  dance, 
And  jewels  flashing  through  luxuriant  curls, 
And  deep  tones  breathing  vows  of  tenderness 
And  truth  to  listening  beauty,  even  then, 
Amid  the  wild  enchantments  of  the  hour, 
To  many  a  heart  the  Past  comes  back  again, 
And,  as  the  fountain  of  its  tears  is  stirred, 
A  voice  comes  sounding  from  its  holiest  depths — 
"  Alas!  she  is  not  here!"    The  spring-time  now 
Is  forth  upon  the  fresh  green  earth,  the  vales 
Are  one  bright  wilderness  of  blooms,  the  woods, 
With  all  their  wealth  of  rainbow  tints,  repose, 
Like  fairy  clouds  noon  the  vernal  sky, 


NIGHT  IN  CAVE  HILL    CEMETERT.         161 

And  every  gale  is  burdened  with  the  gush 

Of  music  —  free,  \vild  music  ;  yet,  lost  one, 

Through  all  these  wildering  melodies,  that  voice 

As  from  the  very  heart  of  Nature  comes  — 

"Alas!  she  is  not  here!"    But  list  !  oh,  list  !  — 

From  the  eternal  depths  of  yonder  sky, 

From  where  -the  flash  of  sun  and  star  is  dim, 

Is  uncreated  light,  an  angel  strain, 

As  sweet  as  that  in  which  the  'morning  stars 

Together  sang  o'er  the  creation's  birth, 

Comes  floating  downward  through  the  ravished  air  — 


"  y°y  •  J°y-    s^e  's  here-f  she  's  here!  " 

'T  is  midnight  deep, 

And  a  pale  cloud,  like  that  whose  shadow  fell 
Upon  our  souls  on  that  remembered  eve, 
Is  passing  o'er  the  moon,  but  now  the  shade 
Falls  on  one  heart  alone.     I  am  alone, 
My  dear  and  long-lost  friend.     Oh  !  wheresoe'er 
In  the  vast  universe  of  God  thou  art, 
I  pray  thee  stoop  at  this  mysterious  hour 
To  the  dark  earth  from  thy  all-radiant  home, 
And  hold  communion  with  thy  weeping  friend 
As  in  the  hours  departed. 

Ah,  I  feel, 

Sweet  spirit,  thou  hast  heard  and  blessed  my  prayer  ! 
I  hear  the  rustling  of  thy  angel-plumes 


162         NIGHT  IN  CAVE   HILL    CEMETERY. 

About  me  and  around  ;  the  very  air 

Is  glowing  with  a  thousand  seraph  thoughts, 

Bright  as  the  sparkles  of  a  shooting  star  ; 

A  hand,  from  which  the  electric  fire  of  Heaven 

Seems  flashing  through  my  frame,  is  clasped  in  mine  ; 

Thy  blessed  voice,  with  its  remembered  tones 

Softened  to  more  than  mortal  melody, 

Is  thrilling  through  my  heart,  as  'twere  the  voice 

Of  the  lost  Pleiad  calling  from  its  place 

In  the  eternal  void  ;  and  our  two  souls 

Blend  once  again  as  erst  they  used  to  blend 

The  heavenly  with  the  earthly  ! 

Fare  thee  well ! 

Sweet  spirit,  fare  thee  well !    The  blessed  words 
That  thou,  this  night,  hast  whispered  to  me  here, 
Above  the  mound  that  hides  thy  mortal  form, 
Will  purify  my  soul  and  strengthen  me 
To  bear  the  ills  and  agonies  of  life, 
And  point  me  to  an  immortality 
With  thee  in  God's  own  holv  Paradise. 


TO   MISS   SALLIE   M.  BRYAN. 

LONG  thy  mystic  tones,  dear  Sallie, 
Have  been  sounding  through  my  brain, 
Like  the  distant  voice  of  ocean, 

In  the  pause  of  wind  and  rain  ; 
And  in  midnight's  solemn  musings, 

And  the  haunted  dreams  of  sleep, 
Oft  to  thine  my  spirit  answers, 
As  deep  calleth  unto  deep. 

I  have  dreamed  thy  soul  a  sea-shell, 

From  the  upper  deep  sublime, 
Cast  by  some  unpitying  billow 

On  this  rocky  shore  of  Time, 
Where  its  sweet  and  dirge-like  breathings 

Seems  a  low  and  mournful  sigh — 
A  deep,  ever  restless  pining 

For  its  far  home  in  the  sky. 

I  have  dreamed  thy  soul  a  wind-harp, 
Of  a  weird  and  wondrous  power, 

Breathing  out  its  strange,  wild  music, 
In  the  twilight's  wizard-hour, 


1G4  TO  MISS   SAL  LIE  M.  BRTAN. 

Gently  swept  by  gales  of  Eden, 

(When  the  earth-wind's  wings  are  furled), 

And  in  mournful  cadence  telling 
Of  its  own  dear  native  world. 

There's  a  realm  within  thy  spirit, 

Filled  with  grandeur  and  with  gloom, 
Where  each  tone  is  like  a  heart-wail, 

And  each  earth-swell  seems  a  tomb  ; 
And  the  flowers — a  somber  tinting 

Overspreads  their  ghastly  forms, 
As  if  nurtured  by  the  droppings 

But  of  passing  thunder-storms. 

While  thy  calm,  angelic  features 

In  serenest  beauty  sleep, 
Thy  high  thoughts,  in  vivid  flashes, 

On  our  startled  vision  leap  : — 
'T  is  as  if  the  keen,  red  lightning 

Should  burst  wildly  from  the  fold 
Of  a  soft,  white  cloud  of  morning 

Tinged  with  violet,  blue  and  gold. 

There 's  a  tall  plant  of  the  tropics, 
That,  amid  its  bristling  spears, 

Puts  forth  one  all-beauteous  blossom 
With  each  score  of  passing  years  ; 


TO  MISS   S  ALL  IE   M.  BRTAN.  1G5 

And  our  human  race,  dear  minstrel, 

Is  a  plant  of  kindred  power : — 
Once  in  each  score  years  it  blossoms, 

And  thou  art  its  glorious  flower. 


FANNIE, 

DEAR  FANNIE,  in  the  twilight  sweet, 
I've  mused  upon  the  long-gone  hours, 
When,  touched  by  your  light,  fairy  feet, 

My  path  grew  red  and  white  with  flowers. 
Together  oft  we  loved  to  stray, 

And  sometimes  by  my  side  you  stood, 
But  oftener  chose  to  bound  away 

In  girlhood's  wild  and  frolic  mood. 
And  I,  at  such  times,  used  to  sit 

And. watch  you  flitting  o'er  the  plain 
As  light  as  troops  of  fairies  flit 

Across  the  poet's  dreaming  brain. 
Your  voice  was  music  to  my  soul — 

It  seemed  the  cadence  of  the  dove  ; 
And  oft  we  talked,  without  control, 

On  every  earthly  theme  but  love. 
Ah,  that  was  never  said  or  sung 

Where  we  in  gentle  converse  tarried, 
For,  Fannie,  you  were  very  young, 

And  I — was  elderly  and  married. 


FANNIE.  167 

We  were  not  more  unlike  in  years 

Than  thoughts  and  feelings.     I  was  staid, 
And  you  a  child  of  smiles  and  tears, 

A  wild  and  self-willed  little  maid. 
I  crowned  you  May  Queen  once,  and  swore 

Allegiance  till  the  May-day's  close, 
But,  ere  the  next  half-hour  was  o'er, 

I  beat  you  with  a  full-blown  rose. 
Then  I  the  blooming  missile  sent 

Right  at  your  laughing  cheek  and  missed  you, 
And  then,  as  graver  punishment, 

I  caught  you  in  my  arms  and  kissed  you. 
Full  at  my  head  your  crown  you  threw, 

In  all  its  wealth  and  vernal  splendor, 
Then,  frightened,  to  your  feet  I  flew 

And  knelt,  a  penitent  offender. 
We  verged,  at  times  on  quarrel's  brink, 

We  matched  keen  wits  at  every  meeting, 
But  you  ne'er  had  from  me,  I  think, 

But  that  one  kiss  and  that  one  beating. 

A  sad,  sad  parting  came  at  last : 

You  roamed  afar — I  scarce  knew  why  ; 

From  out  my  path  a  sweet  flower  passed, 
A  bright  star  wandered  from  my  sky. 

I  did  not  dream  to  see  you  more, 
Or  listen  to  your  cadence  sweet, 


168  FANNIE. 

But  here,  upon  this  Southern  shore, 

Again  for  one  brief  hour  we  meet. 
The  scent  of  flower,  the  note  of  bird, 

Are  loading  this  delicious  breeze, 
But  your  dear  face  and  voice  have  stirred 

My  spirit's  depths  far  more  than  these. 
Ah,  Fannie,  you  are  young  and  bright, 

And  lovers,  by  the  dozen,  throng 
Forever  round  you,  day  and  night, 

With  wit,  and  blandishment,  and  song ; 
But,  well  I  know,  my  darling  pet, 

You  do  not  let  such  trifles  trouble  you, 
Your  wild  heart  is  unconquered  yet — 

Is  it  not  so,  dear  Fannie  W.  ? 


A   FAREWELL. 

I  MET  thee  in  a  stranger  land 
Far  from  my  own  blue  streams, 
And  gloriously  the  vision  shone 

Upon  my  spirit's  dreams  ; 
And  then  my  lyre,  that  long  had  slept 
Unvisited,  unheard,  unswept, 
Awoke  in  Beauty's  gleams, 
As  erst  the  harp  of  Memnon  woke 
When  o'er  its  chords  the  morning  broke. 

We  met,  and  soon  my  spirit  bowed, 

Unshadowed  girl,  to  thee, 
As  the  bright  bow  upon  the  cloud 

Bends  to  the  monarch-sea. 
Thy  words,  thy  tones,  the  smiles  that  played 
Upon  thy  lovely  features,  bade 

Long-hidden  thoughts  go  free  ; 
And  sweetly  in  my  manhood's  tears 
Were  glassed  the  tints  of  earlier  years. 


170  A   FAREWELL. 

And  now  we  part — these  simple  words 

May  be  my  last  farewell, 
But  often  o'er  my  bosom's  chords 

Thy  spirit-tones  will  swell ; 
The  happy  hours  since  first  we  met 
Upon  my  heart  and  life  have  set 

A  deep  and  deathless  spell ; 
And  thou  wilt  be,  although  afar, 
Of  memory's  heaven  the  dearest  star. 

Farewell !  farewell !  yon  moon  is  bright 

And  calm  and  pure  like  thee  ; 
But,  lo  !  a  dark  cloud  dims  its  light — 

The  type,  alas,  of  me  ; 
From  the  blue  heavens  the  cloud  will  go, 
But  the  unfading  moon  will  glow 

Still  beautiful  and  free  ; 
And  thus  thy  life  with  fadeless  ray 
Will  shine  when  I  am  passed  away. 


YOUNG  ADELAIDE. 

WHEN  Morn  comes,  beautiful  and  calm, 
With  cheek  of  bloom  and  breath  of  balm, 
And  stoops  o'er  rose  and  violet  blue 
To  kiss  them  with  her  lips  of  dew, 
And  bids  the  waves  and  breezes  wake 
Their  fairy  tones  on  stream  and  lake, 
I  love  to  stray  o'er  hill  and  glade 
And  think  of  thee,  young  Adelaide. 

And  when  the  birds  at  evening  fold 
Their  glancing  wings  of  blue  and  gold, 
And  white  mists  in  the  starlight  shine, 
Floating  with  motion  soft  as  thine, 
And  Night  in  her  strange  beauty  vies 
With  thy  dark  hair  and  starry  eyes, 
I  love  to  stray  o'er  vale  and  lea, 
And  think,  young  Adelaide,  of  thee. 


A   NIGHT   SCENE. 

?r  I   l  IS  a  sweet  scene.     'Mid  shadows  dim 

J_     The  mighty  river  wanders  by, 
And  on  its  calm,  unruffled  brim, 

So  soft  the  bright  star-shadows  lie, 
'T  would  seem  as  if  the  night-wind's  plume 
Had  swept  through  woods  of  tropic  bloom, 
And  shaken  down  their  blossoms  white 
To  float  upon  the  waves  to-night. 

And  see  !  as  soars  the  moon  aloft, 

Her  yellow  beams  come  through  the  air 

So  mild,  so  beautifully  soft, 

That  wave  and  wood  seem  stirred  with  prayer 

And  the  pure  spirit,  as  it  kneels 

At  Nature's  holy  altar,  feels 

Religion's  self  come  stealing  by 

In  every  beam  that  cleaves  the  sky. 

The  living  soul  of  beauty  fills 

The  air  with  glorious  visions  :  bright 

They  wander  o'er  the  forest  hills 
And  linger  in  the  pallid  light ; 


A  NIGHT  SCENE. 


Off  to  the  breathing  heavens  they  go, 
Along  the  earth  they  live  and  glow, 
Shed  on  the  stream  their  holy  smiles, 
And  beckon  to  its  purple  isles. 


173 


RAPHAEL   TO  JULIA. 

rTlHOU  gav'st  thy  hand,  all  trembling  like  a  dove, 

-L.     To  one  who  deemed  thee,  as  thou  art,  divine, 
But  could  he  love  thee  with  the  glorious  love 
That's  due  to  such  a  fiery  heart  as  thine? 


Thou  wast  to  him  the  idol  of  his  years, 
A  star  to  light  his  pathway  from  on  high, 

But  could  his  soul  dissolve  in  love  and  tears, 
Or  soar  with  thine  into  the  broad,  blue  sky? 

When  thy  keen  spirit  on  its  wing  of  fire 
Rose  proudly  up  above  our  mortal  state, 

To  list  the  music  of  the  starry  lyre, 

Did'st  thou  not  sigh  for  some  high  spirit-mate? 

Oh,  my  heart's  idol  !  could  thy  bosom  proud 
Give  back  the  wild  and  burning  love  of  mine, 

Our  souls  should  mate  like  eagles  in  the  cloud 
Where  the  storm  welters  and  its  rainbows  shine  ! 


RAPHAEL    TO   JULIA. 

I  could  defy  pain,  death,  my  soul's  unrest, 
In  the  fierce  struggle  for  such  glorious  prize- 

What  could  I  fear,  while  clasping  to  my  breast 
All  that  I  know  or  dream  of  Paradise  ? 


175 


THE    PARTING. 

r~T~^HE  signal  from  the  distant  strand 

JL     Streams  o'er  the  waters  blue — 
It  bids  me  press  thy  parting  hand, 

And  breathe  my  last  adieu  ; 
But  oft  on  fancy's  glowing  wing 

My  heart  will  love  to  stray, 
And  still  to  thee  with  rapture  spring, 

Though  I  am  far  away. 

With  thee  I'  ve  wandered  oft  to  hear, 

On  Summer's  quiet  eves, 
The  wild-bird's  music,  soft  and  clear, 

Borne  through  the  whispering  leaves, 
Or  see  the  moon's  bright  shadow  laid 

Upon  the  waveless  bay  : 
Those  eves — their  memory  can  not  fade, 

Though  I  am  far  away. 

My  life  may  feel  Hope's  withering  blight, 

Yet  Fancy's  tearful  eye 
Will  turn  to  thee — the  dearest  light 

In  retrospection's  sky ; 


THE  PARTING.  177 

And  still  the  memory  of  our  love, 

While  life  was  young  and  gay, 
Will  sweetly  o'er  my  spirit  move, 

Though  I  am  far  away. 

'T  is  hard,  when  Spring's  first  flower  expands, 

To  pass  it  coldly  by, 
Or  see  upon  the  desert  sands 

The  gem  unheeded  lie  ; 
The  gentle  thoughts  that  bless  the  hours 

Of  love  can  ne'er  decay, 
And  thou  wilt  live  in  memory's  bowers, 

Though  I  am  far  away. 

The  sun  has  sunk,  with  fading  gleam, 

Down  evening's  shadowy  vale, 
But  see — his  softened  glories  stream 

From  yonder  crescent  pale  ; 
And  thus  affection's  chastened  light 

Will  memory  still  display, 
To  gild  the  gloom  of  sorrow's  night,  . 

Though  I  am  far  away. 


LILY  MERRILL. 

I'VE  looked  on  many  a  lovely  face 
In  cold  New  England's  stormy  clime, 
I've  knelt  to  woman's  floating  grace 

Beneath  the  orange  and  the  lime  ; 
I've  heard,  through  all" our  mighty  land, 

Her  soft  tones  thrill  upon  the  air, 
And  sometimes  dared  to  bathe  my  hand 

Amid  the  bright  waves  of  her  hair  ; 
I've  lingered  oft  in  hall  and  bower, 

But  still  my  heart  and  life  seemed  sterile, 
Until  they  burst  to  glorious  flower 

Beneath  the  smile  of  Lily  Merrill. 

In  Italy  I  oft  have  strayed 

Where  love  and  mirth  and  beauty  shine  ; 
I've  looked  on  many  a  Georgian  maid, 

Whose  beauty  almost  seemed  divine  ; 
I'  ve  dwelt  beneath  the  skies  of  Spain, 

Within  the  old  white  walls  of  Cadiz, 


LILT  MERRILL.  179 

And  listened  to  love's  melting  strain 

Breathed  o'er  the  lutes  of  Spanish  ladies ; 

But  ah,  I  never,  never  felt 

My  wandering  heart  in  mortal  peril, 

Until  in  ecstasy  I  knelt 

To  the  young  charms  of  Lily  Merrill 

I  met  her  in  the  joyous  dance, 

Where  music's  soft  and  thrilling  strain 
Swelled  on  the  air,  and  every  glance 

Fixed  her  sweet  image  on  my  brain  ; 
I  saw  her  move  in  pride  of  power, 

'Mid  beauty's  bright,  bewitching  daughters, 
As  graceful  as  her  namesake  flower 

Upon  the  blue  lake's  heaving  waters  ; 
Amid  her  free  and  lovely  tresses 

She  wore  no  diamond,  pearl,  or  beryl, 
But  oft  my  heart  with  rapture  blesses 

The  night  I  met  young  Lily  Merrill. 


TO   MARIAN   PRENTICE   PIATT: 

AN    INFANT. 

HILD  of  two  poets,  whose  rich  songs 
Have  won  a  high  and  peerless  fame, 
I  thank  them,  that  to  thee  belongs 

A  portion  of  my  humble  name- 
That  they  have  blent  for  thee  its  tone 
With  the  sweet  music  of  their  own. 

As  yet,  dear  child,  thou  hast  not  trod 
The  paths  of  life  where  grief  is  met, 

But  beauty,  like  a  smile  of  God, 
Upon  thy  little  brow  is  set ; 

And,  oh  !  may  Heaven  forever  bless 

Thy  life  with  love  and  happiness. 

A  germ  of  genius,  high  and  good, 
Methinks  within  thy  bosom  lies, 

Which,  in  thy  coming  womanhood, 

Will  bear  bright  blossoms  for  the  skies — 

Aye,  bear  even  in  these  earthly  bovvers 

Eternity's  all-glorious  flowers. 


TO   MARIAN  PRENTICE  PI  ATT. 

May  all  thy  life  a  poem  be, 

Oh,  sweet  as  e'er  thy  mother  writ, 

And  beauteous  as  the  visions  fair 
That  through  thy  father's  spirit  flit ; 

And  may  that  poem,  bright  and  high, 

Be  set  to  music  of  the  sky. 


181 


THE  DEATH-DAY  OF  WILLIAM  COURTLAND 
PRENTICE. 

ONCE  more  I  come  at  set  of  sun 
To  sit  beside  thee,  long-lost  one  ; 
To  muse  upon  thy  joyous  prime, 
in  that  dear,  unforgotten  time 
When  thou  didst  bound  o'er  hills  and  plains, 
Life  running  wild  in  all  thy  veins, 
And  thou  in  manhood's  young  estate 
Didst  almost  seem  to  challenge  fate. 

Thine  eagle-spirit  ever  soared 

Where  thunders  broke  and  tempests  roared — 

Through  battle's  flame  and  smoke  it  dashed 

Where  bayonets  gleamed  and  sabres  clashed  ; 

But  ah,  a  fatal  shaft  was  sped, 

And  thou  wast  with  the  stricken  dead  ; — 

Now  thou  art  here  beneath  these  clods, 

Struck  by  man's  lightning,  not  by  God's. 


WILLIAM  COURTLAND   PRENTICE.          183 

Dear  Courtland,  thou,  the  strong,  the  brave, 

Fillest  a  warrior's  bloody  grave  ; 

The  soil  above  thee,  wet  with  showers, 

Gives  birth  to  sweet  and  beauteous  flowers ; 

But  e'en  the  white  rose  to  my  view 

Bears  in  its  veins  a  crimson  hue, 

As  if  its  mournful  essence  came 

From  the  red  death-wounds  of  thy  frame. 

Thou  sleepest  well !    The  bugle-note 
Of  battle  may  above  thee  float ; 
The  tramp  of  charging  hosts  around 
May  like  an  earthquake  shake  the  ground  ; 
The  cannon's  voice,  the  victors'  shout, 
May  through  the  sulphurous  air  peal  out ; 
But  thou  wilt  sleep  amid  the  ro'ar — • 
No  power  but  God's  can  wake  thee  more. 

Perchance,  when  fallen  in  the  strife, 
Thy  young  lips  breathed  a  prayer  for  life  ; 
Perchance  thy  heart  heaved  one  deep  sigh 
To  think  that  thou  so  soon  must  die. 
But,  had  it  been  thy  lot  to  know 
The  coming  triumph  of  thy  foe  : 
Hadst  thou  foreseen,  all  rent  and  riven, 
The  cause  to  which  thy  soul  was  given  ; 
Foreseen  the  flag,  thy  guide,  thy  star, 


184        WILLIAM  COURTLAND   PRENTICE. 

Trailed  low  behind  the  conqueror's  car  ; 

Foreseen  fierce  desolation  stride 

O'er  the  bright  land  that  was  thy  pride  ; 

Foreseen  hill,  plain,  and  vale,  and  wood, 

Swept  as  by  storms  of  fire  and  blood  : 

The  clime  where  Heaven's  best  blessings  fell 

Changed  by  man's  passions  to  a  hell : 

Its  homes,  where  joy  and  love  erst  met, 

By  hunger's  howling  wolves  beset : 

Its  human  forms  like  skeletons, 

Its  streams  like  ghostly  Phlegethons — 

Thou  would'st  have  blessed  with  latest  breath 

A  kind  God  for  his   angel,  Death. 

Thy  form  is  in  this  sacred  spot, 
Thy  memory  and  thy  soul  are  not ; 
Thy  name  high  hearts  will  love  to  keep 
Through  all  thy  lone  and  solemn  sleep. 
Oft  bards  have  strung  and  bards  will  string 
Their  sweet  and  holy  lyres  to  fling 
Pure  song-wreaths,  evermore  to  bloom 
Like  amaranths  upon  thy  tomb  ; 
And  thoughts  of  thee  in  deep  souls  lie 
Like  golden  clouds  in  Autumn's  sky. 
Bright  ones  will  sigh — the  young,  the  old — 
When  thy  young  destiny  is  told  ; 


WILLIAM  COURTLAND   'PRENTICE,       185 

Thy  laurels,  with  soft  heart-dews  wet, 
Brighten  as  suns  shall  rise  and  set, 
And  tear-founts  heave  and  swell  to  thee, 
As  to  yon  moon  the  heaving  sea. 


ELEGIAC* 

TTERE,  whilst  the  twilight  clews 
JL    .I.   Are  softly  gathering  on  the  leaves  and  flowers, 
I  come,  oh  patriot  dead,  to  muse 
A  few  brief  hours. 

Hard  by  you,  rank  on  rank, 
Rise  the  sad  evergreens,  whose  solemn  forms 
Are  dark  as  if  they  only  drank 
The  thunder  storms. 

Through  the  thick  leaves  around 
The  low,  wild  winds  their  dirge- like  music  pour, 
Like  the  far  ocean's  solemn  sound 
On  its  lone  shore. 

From  all  the  air  a  sigh, 

Dirge-like,  and  soul-like,  melancholy,  wild, 

Comes  like  a  mother's  wailing  cry 

O'er  her  dead  child. 

*  Written   in  the  portion  of  Cave  Hill    Cemetery,  Louisville, 
allotted  to  the  Union  Dead. 


ELEGIAC.  187 

Yonder,  a  little  way, 

Where  mounds  rise  thick  like  surges  on  the  sea, 
Those  whom  ye  met  in  fierce  array 
Sleep  dreamlessly. 

The  same  soft  breezes  sing, 
The  same  birds  chant  their  spirit-requiem, 

The  same  sad  flowers  their  fragrance  fling 
O'er  you  and  them. 

And  pilgrims  oft  will  grieve 
Alike  o'er  Northern  and  o'er  Southern  dust, 
And  both  to  God's  great  mercy  leave 
In  equal  trust. 

Oh,  ye  and  they,  as  foes, 

Will  meet  no  more,  but  calmly  take  your  rest, 
The  meek  hands  folded  in  repose 
On  each  still  breast. 

No  marble  columns  rear 

Their  shafts  to  blazon  each  dead  hero's  name, 
Yet  well,  oh  well,  ye  slumber  here, 
Great  sons  of  fame  ! 

The  dead  as  free  will  start 
From  the  unburdened  as  the  burdened  sod, 
And  stand  as  pure  in  soul  and  heart 
Before  their  God. 


188  ELEGIAC. 


'T  is  morn  —  as  lone  I  stand, 

The  dawn  is  reddening  o'er  each  humble  grave  ; 
Oh,  \vhen  shall  night  pass  from  the  land 
Ye  die  to  save  ? 

Through  all  the  upper  air 
May  your  life-blood  in  exhalations  rise, 
A  ghastly  cloud  of  red  despair 
To  traitor  eyes. 

And  may  the  lightnings  dire, 
Coiled  in  that  cloud,  like  vengeful  scorpions  dart 
To  blast  with  their  keen  fangs  of  fire 
Each  traitor  heart. 


LINES 
TO  ALICE  M'CLURE  GRIFFIN. 

I   THINK  of  thee  when  Eastern  skies 
Are  gleaming  with  the  dawn's  first  red- 
Of  thee  when  sunset's  fairy  dyes 

In  beauty  o'er  the  West  are  shed  ; 
My  thoughts  are  thine  mid  toil  and  strife, 

Thine  when  all  care  and  sorrow  flee, 
Aye  thine,  forever  thine  ; — my  life 
Is  but  a  living  thought  of  thee. 

I  think  of  thee  when  Spring's  first  flowers 
O'er  hill  and  plain  and  valley  glow — • 

Of  thee,  mid  Autumn's  purple  bowers, 
And  cold  December's  wastes  of  snow. 

My  thoughts  are  thine  when  joys  depart, 
-  Thine  when  from  weary  trouble  free, 

Aye,  thine,  forever  thine  ; — my  heart 
Is  but  a  throbbing  thought  of  thee. 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 


ISTORIC  MOUNT  !  baptized  in  flame  and  blood, 


-  -    -L  Thy  name  is  as  immortal  as  the  rocks 
That  crown  thy  thunder-scarred  but  royal  brow. 
Thou  liftest  up  thy  aged  head  in  pride 
In  the  cool  atmosphere,  but  higher  still 
Within  the  calm  and  solemn  atmosphere 
Of  an  immortal  fame.     From  thy  sublime 
And  awful  summit,  I  can  gaze  afar 
Upon  in  numerous  lesser  pinnacles, 
And  oh  !   my  winged  spirit  loves  to  fly, 
Like  a  strong  eagle,  'mid  their  up -piled  crags. 
But  most  on  thee,  imperial  mount,  my  soul 
Is  chained  as  by  a  spell  of  power. 

I  gaze 

From  this  tall  height  on  Chickamauga's  field, 
Where  Death  held  erst  high  carnival.     The  waves 
Of  the  mysterious  death-river  moaned  ; 
The  tramp,  the  shout,  the  fearful  thunder-roar 
Of  red-breath'd  cannon,  and  the  wailing  cry 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN.  191 

Of  myriad  victims,  filled  the  air.     The  smoke 
Of  battle  closed  above  the  charging  hosts, 
And,  when  it  passed,  the  grand  old  flag  no  more 
Waved  in  the  light  of  heaven.     The  soil  was  wet 
And  miry  with  the  life-blood  of  the  brave, 
As  with  a  drenching  rain  ;  and  yon  broad  stream, 
The  noble  and  majestic  Tennessee, 
Ran  reddened  toward  the  deep. 

But  thou,  O  bleak 

And  rocky  mountain,  wast  the  theater 
Of  a  yet  fiercer  struggle.     On  thy  height, 
Where  now  I  sit,  a  proud  and  gallant  host, 
The  chivalry  and  glory  of  the  South, 
Stood  up  awaiting  battle.     Somber  clouds, 
Floating  far,  far  beneath  them,  shut  from  view 
The  stern  and  silent  foe,  whose  stoned  flag 
Bore  on  its  folds  our  country's  monarch-bird, 
Whose  talons  grasp  the  thunderbolt     Up,  up 
Thy  rugged  sides  they  came  with  measured  tramp, 
Unheralded  by  bugle,  drum,  or  shout, 
And,  though  the  clouds  closed  round  them  with  the  gloom 
Of  double  night,  they  paused  not  in  their  march 
Till  sword  and  plume  and  bayonet  emerged 
Above  the  spectral  shades  that  circled  round 
Thy  awful  breast.     Then  suddenly  a  storm 
Of  flame  and  lead  and  iron  downward  burst, 
From  this  tall  pinnacle,  like  winter  hail. 


192  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 

Long,  fierce,  and  bloody  was  the  strife — alas ! 
The  noble  flag,  our  country's  hope  and  pride, 
Sank  down  beneath  the  surface  of  the  clouds, 
As  sinks  the  pennon  of  a  shipwrecked  bark 
Beneath  a  stormy  sea,  and  naught  was  heard 
Save  the  wild  cries  and  moans  of  stricken  men, 
And  the  swift  rush  of  fleeing  warriors  down 
Thy  rugged  steeps. 

But  soon  the  trumpet-voice 
Of  the  bold  chieftain  of  the  routed  host 
Resounded  through  the  atmosphere,  and  pierced 
The  clouds  that  hung  around  thee.     With  high  words 
He  quickly  summoned  his  brave  soldiery  back 
To  the  renewal  of  the  deadly  fight ; 
Again  their  stern  and  measured  tramp  was  heard 
By  the  flushed  Southrons,  as  it  echoed  up 
Thy  bald,  majestic  cliffs.     Again  they  burst, 
Like  spirits  of  destruction,  through  the  clouds, 
And  mid  a  thousand  hurtling  missiles  swept 
Their  foes  before  them  as  the  whirlwind  sweeps 
The  strong  oaks  of  the  forest.     Victory 
Perched  with  her  sister-eagle  on  the  scorched 
And  torn  and  blackened  banner. 

Awful  mount : 

The  stains  of  blood  have  faded  from  thy  rocks, 
The  cries  of  mortal  agony  have  ceased 
To  echo  from  thy  hollow  cliffs,  the  smoke 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN.  193 

Of  battle  long  since  melted  into  air, 

And  yet  thou  art  unchanged.     Aye,  thou  wilt  lift 

In  majesty  thy  walls  above  the  storm, 

Mocking  the  generations  as  they  pass, 

And  pilgrims  of  the  far-off  centuries 

Will  sometimes  linger  in  their  wanderings, 

To  ponder,  with  a  deep  and  sacred  awe. 

The  legend  of  the  fight  above  the  clouds. 


TO  A  POLITICAL   OPPONENT.* 

I  SEND  tbee,  Greeley,  words  of  cheer, 
Thou  bravest,  truest,  best  of  men  ; 
For  I  have"marked  thy  strong  career, 

As  traced  by  thy  own  sturdy  pen. 
I  've  seen  thy  struggles  with  the  foes 

That  dared  thee  to  the  desperate  fight, 
And  loved  to  watch  thy  goodly  blows, 

Dealt  for  the  cause  thou  deem'st  the  right. 

Thou  'st  dared  to  stand  against  the  wrong 

When  many  faltered  by  thy  side  ; 
In  thy  own  strength  hast  dared  be  strong, 

Nor  on  another's  arm  relied. 
Thy  own  bold  thoughts  tbou'st  dared  to  think, 

Thy  own  great  purposes  avowed  ; 
And  none  have  ever  seen  thee  shrink 

From  the  fierce  surges  of  the  crowd. 
*  Horace  Greeley. 


TO  A  POLITICAL    OPPONENT  195 

Thou,  all  unaided  and  alone, 

Didst  take  thy  way  in  life's  young  years, 
With  no  kind  hand  clasped  in  thy  own, 

No  gentle  voice  to  soothe  thy  fears. 
But  thy  high  heart  no  power  could  tame, 

And  thou  hast  never  ceased  to  feel 
Within  thy  veins  a  sacred  flame 

That  turned  thy  iron  nerves  to  steel. 

I  know  that  thou  art  not  exempt 

From  all  the  weaknesses  of  earth  ; 
For  passion  comes  to  rouse  and  tempt 

The  truest  souls  of  mortal  birth. 
But  thou  hast  well  fulfilled  thy  trust, 

In  spite  of  love  and  hope  and  fear  ; 
And  even  the  tempest's  thunder-gust 

But  clears  thy  spirit's  atmosphere. 

Thou  still  art  in  thy  manhood's  prime, 

Still  foremost  'mid  thy  fellow-men, 
Though  in  each  year  of  all  thy  time 

Thou  hast  compressed  three-score  and  ten. 
Oh,  may  each  blessed  sympathy, 

Breathed  on  thee  with  a  tear  and  sigh, 
A  sweet  flower  in  thy  pathway  be, 

A  bright  star  in  thy  clear  blue  sky. 


ON  A  BOOK  OF  VERSES. 

TO  ALICE  M'CLURE  GRIFFIN, 

DEAR  ALICE,  for  two  happy  hours, 
I've  sat  within  this  little  nook 
To  muse  upon  the  sweet  soul-flowers 

That  blossom  in  thy  gentle  book. 
They  lift  their  white  and  spotless  bells, 

Untouched  by  frost,  unchanged  by  time, 
For  they  are  blessed  immortelles 
Transplanted  from  the  Eden  clime. 

With  pure  and  deep  idolatry 

Upon  each  lovely  page  I  Ve  dwelt, 
Till  to  thy  spirit's  sorcery 

My  spirit  has  with  reverence  knelt. 
Oh,  every  thought  of  thine  to  me 

Is  like  a  fount,  a  bird,  a  star, 
A  tone  of  holy  minstrelsy 

Down  floating  from  the  clouds  afar. 

The  fairies  have  around  thee  traced 
.A  circle  bright,  a  magic  sphere — 


ON  A    BOOK   OF    VERSES.  197 

The  home  of  genius,  beauty,  taste, 
The  joyous  smile,  the  tender  tear. 
Within  that  circle,  calm  and  clear, 

With  Nature's  softest  dews  impearled, 
I  sit  and  list,  with  pitying  ear, 

The  tumults  of  the  far-off  world. 

Thy  book  is  shut ;  its  flowers  remain, 

'Mid  this  mysterious  twilight  gloom, 
Deep-imaged  on  my  heart  and  brain, 

And  shed  their  fragrance  through  my  room. 

Ah,  how  I  love  their  holy  bloom, 
As  in  these  moonbeams,  dim  and  wran, 

They  seem  pale  blossoms  o'er  a  tomb 
That  's  closed  upon  the  loved  and  gone. 

Young  angel  of  my  waning  years,* 

Consoler  of  life's  stormiest  day, 
Magician  of  my  hopes  and  fears, 

Guide  of  my  dark  and  troubled  way, 

To  thee  this  little  votive  lay, 
In  gratitude  I  dedicate  ; 

And  with  an  earnest  spirit  pray 
God's  blessing  on  thy  mortal  state. 

#  At  Mr.  Griffin's  house  in  Louisville,  after  his  own  home  was 
broken  up,  Mr.  Prentice  was  treated  with  filial  tenderness  by 
both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Griffin. 


VIOLETS. 

A     CCEPT,  my  friend,  these  violets  blue, 
^L\-  Once  wet  with  morning's  silver  dew, 
Now  fading  mournfully  away, 
Yet  lovely  still  in  their  decay. 
Young  nurselings  of  a  Southern  land, 
They  came  from  gentle  beauty's  hand, 
And  I  will  send  them  now  to  rest 
On  gentler  beauty's  angel  breast. 

And  there,  oh,  dear  one  !  let  them  sleep, 

By  day,  at  eve,  in  midnight  deep, 

Soothed  in  their  flower-dreams  soft  and  sweet 

By  thy  young  heart's  delicious  beat ; 

And  I  shall  think  of  them  and  thee, 

And  deeply  long  with  both  to  be, 

Feeling  perchance  a  sad  regret 

That  I  am  not  a  violet. 

But  of  these  flowers,  dear  lady,  take 
The  loveliest  one,  and,  for  my  sake, 


VIOLETS. 

Within  the  book  thou  lovest  best, 
Let  its  poor,  fading  leaves  be  pressed  ; 
Then  keep  it  through  the  coming  years, 
Oft  nurtured  by  thy  smiles  and  tears, 
And  let  it  ever,  ever  be 
Love's  token-flower  from  me  to  thee. 


190 


THOUGHTS   ON   THE   FAR   PAST. 

[WRITTEN  AMID  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  OLD  SPANISH  MISSION-HOUSE 
NEAR    SAN    ANTONIO,  TEXAS.] 

AMID  these  ruins,  gloomy,  ghostly,  strange, 
The  weird  memorials  of  an  elder  time. 
The  sacred  relics  of  dead  centuries, 
I  stand  in  utter  loneliness  ;   and  thoughts 
As  solemn  as  the  mysteries  of  the  deep 
Come  o'er  me,  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
O'er  the  still  waters  of  a  lonely  lake, 
Or  like  the  mournful  twilight  of  eclipse 
O'er  the  dim  face  of  Nature. 

Ye  were  reared, 

Oh  ruins  old,  by  stern  and  holy  men — 
God's  messengers  unto  a  new-found  world — • 
Whose  voices,  like  the  trumpet  of  the  blast, 
Resounded  through  the  forests,  and  shook  down, 
As  by  an  earthquake's  dread  iconoclasm, 
The  idols  that  men  worshipped.     Their  great  lives 
Were  given  to  awful  duty,  and  their  words 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE  FAR   PAST.  201 

Swelled,  breathed,  and  burned  and  throbbed  upon  the  air 

In  solemn  majesty.     They  did  not  shrink 

Or  falter  in  the  path  of  thorn  and  rock 

Their  souls  marked  out.     Their  moldercd  relics  lie 

Beneath  yon  humble  mounds  ;  but  ah,  their  names, 

There  rudely  sculptured  upon  blocks  of  stone, 

Are  breathed  on  earth  with  reverential  awe, 

And  written  by  God's  finger  on  His  scroll 

Of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Age  has  followed  age 
To  the  abysses  of  Eternity  ; 
And  many  generations  of  our  race 
Have  sprung  and  faded  like  the  forest  leaves  ; 
The  mightiest  temples  reared  by  human  pride 
Have  long  been  scattered  by  a  thousand  storms — • 
But  ye  remain.     Ah  yes,  ye  still  remain, 
And  many  pilgrims  yearly  turn  aside 
From  their  far  journeyings,  to  come  and  pause 
Amid  your  shattered  wrecks,  as  lone  and  wild 
As  those  of  Tadmor  of  the  desert.     Wolves 
Howl  nightly  in  your  ghostly  corridors, 
And  here  the  deadly  serpent  makes  his  home. 
Yet  round  your  broken  walls,  your  fallen  roofs, 
Your  many  crumbling,  shattered  images, 
Your  sunken  floors,  your  shrines  with  grass  o'ergrown, 
And  the  unnumbered  strange,  mysterious  flowers, 
That  stand,  pale  nuns,  upon  your  topmost  heights, 


202  THOUGHTS    ON  THE  FAR  PAST. 

\Vild  chants  and  soul-like  dirges  seem  to  rise, 

And  the  low  tones  of  eloquence  and  prayer 

Seem  sounding  on  the  hollow  winds  ;  and  here 

I  kneel  as  lowly  as  I  could  have  knelt, 

If  I  had  listened  to  the  living  words 

Your  grand  old  founders  uttered  in  the  name 

Of  God,  who  sent  them  to  proclaim  His  will. 


TO   LITTLE   VIRGILINE   GRIFFIN. 

"X  7""OU  are  a  charming  little  sprite, 

I       A  thing  of  love  and  joy  and  light, 
You  're  full  of  sweetness  and  of  grace  ; 
Sweet  is  your  name,  more  sweet  you  face, 
So  you  shall  be  our  baby  queen, 
Oh,  clearest  little  Virgiline. 

You  're  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  rose 
That  in  the  early  spring-time  blows  ; 
You  're  sweeter  than  the  violet 
When  its  young  leaves  with  dews  are  wet- 
Your  very  sighs  more  sweet  by  half 
Than  any  other  baby's  laugh  ; 
Your  counterpart  was  never  seen, 
Oh,  darling  little  Virgiline. 

Should  I  awake  from  visions  bright, 
In  the  deep  silence  of  the  night. 
And  see  a  form  before  me  rise, 
Like  that  which  gladdens  now  my  eyes, 
Oh,  I  should  think  it  was  a  fair 


204  TO   LITTLE    VIRGILTNE    GRIFFIN. 

And  blessed  angel  of  the  air, 
A  being  sent  down  from  the  skies 
To  dry  my  tears,  to  hush  my  sighs, 
And  toward  the  vision  I  would  lean 
With  rapture,  loveliest  Virgiline. 

Within  the  dark  depths  of  your  eyes, 
As  in  the  blue  depths  of  the  skies, 
I  gaze  with  ecstasy,  and  lo  ! 
Bright,  winged  things  flit  to  and  fro, 
And  their  rich  music-tones  are  flung 
Like  bird-notes  when  the  year  is  young. 
Ah,  dear  one,  if  you  are  so  good 
And  beautiful  in  babyhood, 
If  you  have  such  bewitching  power 
Ere  your  life's  bud  has  burst  to  flower, 
What  will  you  be  at  sweet  sixteen  ? — 
Canst  tell  me,  baby  Virgiline? 


ON  THE   SUMMIT  OF  THE  SIERRA  MADRE. 

]    )ERCHED  like  an  eagle  on  this  kingly  height, 
JL       That  towers  toward  heaven  above  all  neighboring 

heights, 

Owning  no  mightier  but  the  King  of  kings, 
I  look  abroad  on  what  seems  boundless  space, 
And  feel  in  every  nerve  and  pulsing  vein 
A  deep  thrill  of  my  immortality. 
How  desolate  is  all  around  !    No  tree, 
Or  shrub,  or  blade,  or  blossom,  ever  springs 
Amid  these  bald  and  blackened  rocks  ;  no  wing 
Save  the  fell  vulture's  ever  fans  the  thin 
And  solemn  atmosphere  ;  no  rain  e'er  falls 
From  passing  clouds — for  this  stupendous  peak 
Is  lifted  far  above  the  summer  storm, 
Its  thunders  and  its  lightnings.     As  I  hold 
Strange  converse  with  the  Genius  of  the  place, 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  demi-god, 
And  waves  of  thought  seem  beating  on  my  soul 
As  ocean  billows  on  a  rocky  shore 
O'erstrown  with  molderinjj  wrecks. 


206  SUMMIT   OF   THE   SIERRA   MAD  RE. 

I  look  abroad, 

And  to  my  eyes  the  whole  world  seems  unrolled 
As  'twere  an  open  scroll.     The  beautiful, 
Grand,  and  majestic,  near  and  far,  are  blent 
Like  colors  in  the  bow  upon  the  cloud. 
Illimitable  plains,  with  myriad  flowers, 
White,  blue,  and  crimson,  like  our  country's  flag; 
The  green  of  ancient  forests,  like  the  green 
Of  the  old  ocean  wrinkled  by  the  winds  ; 
Cities  and  towns,  dim  and  mysterious, 
Like  something  pictured  in  the  dreams  of  sleep  ; 
A  hundred  streams,  with  all  their  wealth  of  isles, 
Some  bright  and  clear,  and  some  with  gauze-like  mists 
Half-veiled  like  beauty's  cheek  ;  tall  mountain-chains, 
Stretching  afar  to  the  horizon's  verge, 
With  an  intenser  blue  than  that  of  heaven, 
Forever 'beckoning  to  the  human  soul 
To  fly  from  pinnacle  to  pinnnacle 
Like  an  exulting  storm-bird  :  these,  all  these, 
Sink  deep  into  my  spirit  like  a  spell 
From  God's  own  Spirit,  and  I  can  but  bow 
To  Nature's  awful  majesty,  and  weep 
As  if  my  head  were  waters. 

Fare-thee-well, 

Old  peak,  bold  monarch  of  the  subject  clouds, 
That  crouch  in  reverence  at  thy  feet ;  I  go 
Afar  from  thee — to  stand  where  now  I  stand 


SUMMIT   OF   THE   SIERRA   MAD  RE.          207 

Oh,  nevermore.     Yet  through  my  few  brief  years 

Of  mortal  being,  these  wild  wondrous  scenes, 

On  which  thou  gazest  out  eternally, 

Will  be  a  picture  graven  on  my  life, 

A  portion  of  my  never-dying  soul. 

What  God  hab  pictured  Time  may  not  erase. 


NEW   ENGLAND. 


FOR    A    CELEBRATION    IN   KENTUCKY    OF    THE    LANDING 
OF    THE    PILGRIMS. 


LIME  of  the  brave  !   the  high  heart's  home  !- 

Laved  by  the  wild  and  stormy  sea  ! 
Thy  children,  in  this  far-off  land, 

Devote,  to-day,  their  hearts  to  thce  ; 
Our  thoughts,  despite  of  space  and  time, 
To-day  are  in  our  native  clime, 
Where  passed  our  sinless  years,  and  where 
Our  infant  heads  first  bowed  in  prayer. 

Stern  land  i  we  love  thy  woods  and  rocks, 
Thy  rushing  streams,  thy  winter  glooms, 

And  Memory,  like  a  pilgrim  gray, 
Kneels  at  thy  temples  and  thy  tombs  : 

The  thoughts  of  these,  where'er  we  dwell, 

Come  o'er  us  like  a  holy  spell, 

A  star  to  light  our  path  of  tears, 

A  rainbow  on  the  sky  of  years. 


NE  W  ENGLAND.  209 

Above  thy  cold  and  rocky  breast 

The  tempest  sweeps,  the  night-wind  wails, 

But  Virtue,  Peace,  and  Love,  like  birds, 
Are  nestled  'mid  thy  hills  and  vales  ; 

And  Glory,  o'er  each  plain  and  glen, 

Walks  with  thy  free  and  iron  men, 

And  lights  her  sacred  beacon  still 

On  Benninsrton  and  Bunker  Hill. 


ODE  ON  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE 
CLAY  STATUE 

AT   LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  MAY    30,   1867.* 

HT^TAIL  !  true  and  glorious  semblance,  hail ! 
JL    JL   Of  him,  the  noblest  of  our  race. 
We  seem,  at  lifting  of  thy  veil, 

To  see  again  his  living  face  ! — 
To  hear  the  stirring  words  once  more, 

That  like  the  storm -god's  cadence  pealed 
With  mightier  power  from  shore  to  shore 

Than  thunders  of  the  battle-field. 

Lo  !  that  calm,  high,  majestic  look, 

That  binds  our  gaze  as  by  a  spell — 
It  is  the  same  that  erst-while  shook 

The  traitors  on  whose  souls  it  fell ! 
Oh,  that  he  were  again  in  life  !  — 

To  wave,  as  once,  his  wand  of  power, 
And  scatter  far  the  storms  of  strife 

That  o'er  our  country  darkly  lower ! 

*  Sung  at  the  time  by  a  chorus  of  one  hundred  voices. 


UNVEILING    OF  THE    CLAT  STATUE.      211 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again, 

He  rolled  back  Passion's  roaring  tide, 
When  the  fierce  souls  of  hostile  men 

Each  other's  wildest  wrath  defied. 
Alas  !  alas  !  dark  storms  at  length 

Sweep  o'er  out  half-wrecked  Ship  of  State, 
And  there  seem  none  with  will  and  strength 

To  save  her  from  her  awful  fate  ! 

But  thou,  majestic  image,  thou 

Wilt  in  thy  lofty  place  abide, 
And  many  a  manly  heart  will  bow 

While  gazing  on  a  nation's  pride  ; 
An-d,  while  his  hallowed  ashes  he 

Afar  beneath  old  Ashland's  sod, 
One  gaze  at  thee  should  sanctify 

Our  hearts  to  country  and  to  God. 

We  look  on  thee,  we  look  on  thee, 

Proud  statue,  glorious  and  sublime, 
And  years,  as  if  by  magic,  flee — 

And  leave  us  in  his  grand  old  time ! 
Oh,  he  was  born  to  bless  our  race 

As  ages  after  ages  roll ! 
We  see  the  image  of   his  face — 

Earth  has  no  image  of  his  soul ! 


212      UNVEILING    OF  THE    CLAT  STATUE. 

Proud  statue  !  if  the  nation's  life, 

For  which  he  toiled  through  all  his  years, 
Must  vanish  in  our  wicked  strife, 

And  leave  but  groans  and  blood  and  tears — 
If  all  to  anarchy  be  given, 

And  ruin  all  our  land  assail, 
He'll  turn  away  his  eyes  in  Heaven, 

And  o'er  thee  we  will  cast  thy  veil ! 


ADDRESS 

AT   THE    OPENING   OF    A    NEW   THEATER   IN   LOUISVILLE,  KY. 
MARCH    25,    1867.* 


1    ^OR  long,  long  years,  all  past  but  not  forgot, 
JL     A  modest  temple  rose  upon  this  spot, 
Devoted  to  the  Drama's  noble  art  — 
To  give  amusement  and  to  touch  the  heart, 
To  wield  at  will  with  passion's  strong  control, 
To  mould  the  feelings,  to  exalt  the  soul, 
To  kindle  thoughts  allied  to  hope  and  fear, 
To  wake  Joy's  smile  and  holy  Pity's  tear. 
The  sinking  sun  upon  that  temple  shone  : 
The  sun  arose  —  lo  !  'twas  forever  gone  ! 
At  night's  deep  moon,  when  all  the  circling  air 
Was  gentle  as  the  cadences  of  prayer, 
Where  naught  was  heard  above,  beneath,  around, 
Save  yonder  waterfall's  low,  solemn  sound, 
Borne  like  a  tone  of  mystery  and  dread 

*  Kecited  by  Miss  Dargon. 


214  ADD  It  ESS. 

Through  what  might  seem  a  city  of  the  dead — 

At  that  culm,  hour,  beneath  the  star's  sweet  ray, 

The  fell  Fire  spirit  seized  upon  his  prey  ; 

No  help,  no  mortal  help,  alas  !  was  nigh — 

The  flames  sprang  upward  toward  the  reddened  sky  ; 

High  in  their  burning  chariots  seemed  to  roam 

The  Muses,  wailing  for  their  perished  home  ; 

The  clouds  above  in  crimson  glory  stood, 

As  if  surcharged  with  awful  showers  of  blood. 

But  soon  the  wild  and  lurid  scene  was  o'er — 

The  flames  sank  down,  the  temple  was  no  more. 

But  look  !  upon  this  spot  to  memory  dear, 

What  beauty  and  magnificence  appear  !  — 

Up  from  the  blackened  ashes,  bleak  and  cold, 

A  temple  rises,  nobler  than  the  old  ; 

Heaven  guard  it  well,  and  may  its  pride  remain 

Till  hoar  antiquity  its  walls  shall  stain. 

And  proudly,  now,  ye  good,  and  brave,  and  fair, 
We  consecrate  it  to  your  generous  care. 
Here,  oft  will  glow  the  floating  dancer's  skill ; 
Here,  music  sweet  your  living  heart-chords  thrill ; 
Here,  histrionic  genius'  lightning-flame 
Awake  the  thunders  of  your  loud  acclaim  ; 
And  flowers' of  bounty  spring,  forever  new — 
Your  smiles  the  sunshine,  and  your  tears  the  dew. 


ADDRESS.  215 

And  here,  diffusing  mirth  and  tender  pain, 
The  Comic  and  the  Trasric  Muse  will  rei^n  : 

*T>  & 

Here,  poor  old  Lear,  all  desolate,  will  bow 

His  snow-white  hair  on  dead  Cordelia's  brow, 

And  raise  his  tottering-  form — weak,  worn,  and  frail — 

To  dare  the  rain,  the  thunder,  and  the  gale  ; 

Here,  Shylock,  grim,  with  heart  too  hard  to  feel, 

Will  lift  his  scales  and  whet  his  cruel  steel ; 

Here,  Hamlet,  gloomy,  but  with  heart  of  fire, 

Avenge  the  murder  of  his  royal  sire  ; 

Here,  Richard,  in  his  wild  affright,  will  leap 

From  the  red  vision  of  his  horrid  sleep, 

And  see,  with  wild  and  frenzied  soul  and  eye, 

The  ghosts  of  murdered  victims  trooping  by  ; 

Here,  weird  Macbeth  will  vainly  seek  to  clasp 

The  airy  dagger  in  his  desperate  grasp, 

And  his  fiend-mate,  despairing,  strive  in  vain 

From  her  curst  hands  to  wash  the  murder-stain  ; 

Here,  Juliet,  from  her  balcony,  bend  low 

To  see  and  hear  her  much-loved  Romeo — 

Return  him  tear  for  tear,  and  sigh  for  sigh, 

And  hail  it  her  last  joy  with  him  to  die  ; 

Here,  girdled  Falstaff  laugh,  with  wheezing  breath— 

Mercutio  jest,  e'en  in  the  arms  of  death  ; 

And  Rosalind,  pure,  beautiful,  and  good, 

Thread  the  dark  mazes  of  the  tangled  wood. 


216  ADDRESS. 

Aye,  we  will  group  within  our  ample  plan, 
All  fancies  of  "  the  myriad-minded  man". 

If  we  have  done,  and  still  do,  well  our  parts, 

Our  proud  appeal  is  to  your  hands  and  hearts : 

\Ve  ask  your  favor  ;  it  will  be  our  task 

To  render  back  the  worth  of  all  we  ask, 

And  make  our  new-born  Temple's  honored  name 

A  portion  of  your  goodly  city's  fame. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

7Feb'56CT 


— 
W\ 


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LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

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